


Wayward Omens

by PrinceTriscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Apostates (Dragon Age), But still slow burn, But we love him for it, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Magic, Dreamers (Dragon Age), I'm not certain if this is gonna be romance or not, It probably will be, Loghain is a grey warden, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, MC is not the inquisitor, Mc is a grumpy shit, Slow Burn, Some angst, Strangers to Friends, Strangers to Lovers, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, hedge mages, i literally hate creating tags so, i promise my writing skills are better than my tagging, if it is then, inquisitor is a male warrior trevelyan, mostly - Freeform, solas is a good friend, the main character is a companion, this definitely became a romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2020-06-23 23:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 103,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19711468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceTriscuit/pseuds/PrinceTriscuit
Summary: Othain is many things - a powerful mage, a hedge witch, recent traveling companion to the elvhen apostate Solas - but he is wholly unprepared for the events that take place at the Temple of Sacred ashes. How could he be, when he himself only recently fled the Brecilian Forest for the first time in over a decade?Now he's thrown into the mix of events that shall shake the very foundations of the world from which he has been hidden away, alongside a careless, thoughtless, reckless and  (admittedly) charismatic warrior.He's certain this isn't what he signed up for when Solas asked him to attend the Conclave.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing starting another fic? I don't know. Honestly. But I had this idea and just had to do it, and I think it's gonna be a really interesting twist on Inquisition events. Hope you all think so too!
> 
> I really tried to cover my bases where the timeline and potential plot holes are concerned, but also I'm exhausted and if there are some gaps in logic please just deal. Just enjoy the ride. lmao

_You’re a fool, boy._

_These woods are darker, older, stronger than you could ever be._

_Don’t let me catch you traipsin’ about after dark, fool, or you’ll regret it._

Ha. The clearest, most present danger to him is that witch. Contrary to what she believes, he is no fool. He knows no witch would take him in, raise him, out of the kindness of her heart. She wants his magic – his innate power is much stronger than many a lesser mage, stronger now even than hers.

He folds his cloak about him tighter and continues through the woods. It is dark, but under the dense foliage of the Brecilian Forest, that doesn’t always indicate nighttime. These woods are timeless, shrouded in mystery, pervaded entirely by ambient magic. The dark kind, the kind that deceives mortal minds and consumes them.

It’s better this way, he tells himself. If her plan were allowed to continue, he would be forced to kill her. While there is no love lost between the two of them, he would rather not kill Hadria.

She taught him everything he knew, after all. Of course, it hadn’t been willingly. Hadria’s efforts to conceal his own magic from him had only exacerbated how rampantly his budding power lashed out. On many occasion he had nearly killed them both in a fit of anger, and she had had no choice but to teach him.

And when it became clear how potent his abilities were, she had seen him as useful, and so she taught him more.

Now he has almost twenty years, and he knows as well as she does that there is little reason to wait. He has grown into his magic as fully as he can be expected to, and if she intends to take it she must take it soon.

He hears an angered cry from far behind him – Hadria has returned, sooner than he expected, and has found him missing from their little sanctuary. There is no time to spare.

Summoning his magic, he bursts into a cloud of ravens, making his way North and West, far away from this cursed wood.

***

He flies for quite awhile – a day, maybe more. Even he is beginning to grow tired. As he passes beyond the Brecilian Forest and into an open plain, he sees for himself how much more vast the world is than he ever experienced. He soars above an expanse of grassy lowland, continuing along the border of the forest. The lowland transforms into marshes, brushland, and more. He soars over the hollowed-out shells of villages, lost in the recent Blight, or perhaps to any number of dangers bred by the encroaching Forest. Disease, war, famine. At one point in time this entire region suffered under a terrible Werewolf affliction. It’s no surprise that the human settlements here failed; it’s more surprising that they were ever established at all.

He may have never been educated formerly, but he knows that he has passed into a region known as the Korcari Wilds, a place every bit as dangerous as his own home. He pushes on, knowing that at some point he must stop and yet determined to put as much distance as he can between himself and the witch.

In stolen glances into Hadria’s scrying glass, in dreamlike explorations of the Fade, he knows this place. It calls to him, its old magic tantalizing, pulling at his multitude in an attempt to force him to earth.

One place in particular calls to him, the spirits pressing against the Veil, worn thin even a decade after the tragedy that occurred here. He no longer has it in him to resist the alluring call of its magic. He must rest, and the ambient power here will surely mask his own.

Perhaps Hadria will not find him here. With any luck she is unwilling to flee so far from her sanctuary in the Brecilian Forest. He wills his jagged shape, the disparate pieces from which he is composed, to descend together, little more than a billowing black silhouette touching down in the bloodstained old battlefield and convalescing in the barest of sighs into his own form.

_Ostagar._

He has been here before, in his dreams. He enjoys watching the old battle, and in a twisted way he even relishes the despair that charges the air even now. He allows himself a small, relieved grin as he pulls his black cloak about himself, bracing against the chill of the early morning – he thinks it is early morning. The twilight blankets his surroundings in a surreal glow.

Raw magic curls and twists around him, drawn to him and replenishing his largely depleted well. It raises the hair of his neck in interest as he surveys the area.

Eyes narrow as he notices something else, something smaller, almost obscured in the depths of the wild magicks of this place.

_Someone has placed wards here. They are still new._

Obviously not Hadria, but still. He makes his way towards the nearest one, conjuring a sphere of white-blue flame ahead of him to light his path. He has made his way mostly across the battlefield and towards a lone tower – the Tower of Ishal, he recalls from his dreams. It is a ghostly and broken thing, extending from the earth that has never recovered from the fire and the blood in grim memoriam.

 _There._ The barest crackling of energy ahead of him catches his attention. Flanking the empty archway into the tower. This ward is not meant to harm, but to detect. A warning. He allows some small amount of his power to wash over it, triggering it with intention that he’s certain the caster will understand.

It’s a greeting, of sorts. He steps into the tower, his interest piqued. Adrenaline sparks within him, fully understanding that this is not the wisest or safest course of action.

He has always placed too much faith in his own power, even if he knows it is rash, unthoughtful.

Making his way through and up into the tower, he notes the many remains of both darkspawn and men alike. Little more than skeletons now, worn to dust by time. The old stone structure is cold and foreign and he draws further into himself, wary of more than the frigid air. There are many such wards around the tower, none of them offensive in nature. They create an impromptu path towards their caster.

The top floor is broken, shattered, resembling the split haft of a spear.

“Ah, and here you are.” The voice is well-spoken, gentle, intelligent. “I thank you for so graciously alerting me to your presence,” he now sees the figure emerge from a shadowed corner. “I take that to mean that you are merely curious? If you intended me harm, you would not have triggered my wards with such intention.”

“I am curious,” he steps further into the room. He can see well the stranger now, lit by a small campfire made in the center of the exposed chamber. He is elvhen, bald, tall and slender. His complexion is fair and marked by neither scar nor by the customary elvhen design. His eyes are brown and clear; there is a depth of understanding there that immediately strikes him as fascinating. “And you have nothing to fear from me.”

Truth be told, he is now much more wary of the other man than he was originally. There is a subtle power there that he knows intuitively he must not underestimate, and he remains on guard.

“Truthfully, something tells me that I have more to fear from you,” he finds himself saying.

The elf laughs, gently, musing upon his response. “You are perceptive. Come and sit by the fire. My name is Solas, by the way.”

“Othain Mac Tir,” he responds, allowing himself a slight smile in response, and he steps towards the fire, lowering his guard only slightly. “You can call me Othain.”

Some small surprise ghosts across Solas’ features, but he says nothing other than “Mac Tir? How fascinating.” Then, as they both take a seat, across the fire from each other, “you must be thirsty.”

“Have you any tea?” Othain then smothers a laugh at the expression Solas makes.

“I detest the stuff,” the elf says, even as he reaches through a pouch and procures a sachet that smells strongly of tea leaves. “But yes. Tell me more about yourself – it is rare that I encounter anyone in my travels, and even more so that they are a mage of your strength.”

Othain gives him a wary look at the mention of his magic. If Solas notices, he makes no comment.

“There isn’t much to tell,” he says nonchalantly. “I was abandoned as a boy – I fled into the Brecilian Forest and was taken in by a witch. She raised me with the intention of taking my magic for herself, and I have only just now decided to part ways from her. I was drawn here in much the way that I imagine you yourself were,” as he finishes he gauges Solas’ reaction and finds an understanding expression there.

“It is true, I am drawn to old ruins and battlefields, places lost to time and legend,” the elf responds. “It is my greatest interest to explore these places in the Fade, to bear witness to their stories. It is interesting that you of all people should be drawn here, Othain Mac Tir.”

“It is certainly ironic,” Othain acknowledges indirectly that Solas’ assumption is correct. “I have explored this place in my dreams, much in the way you have, and the apparitions who take his face have never left me. In all honesty, I never truly knew him. My memories of him are more shadowed than my visions in the Fade.”

Something stirs in his gut, something angry and dark that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Solas notices the shadow that deepens his expression – in the light of the fire this man’s fair skin falls into steep contrast where shadows play across his features. Hair the color of midnight falls in rings over his face, and his eyes settle on the fire. They, too, are black as ink and deep like the night sky.

Careful to mask his surprise at finding that this boy, too, explores the Fade as he does, Solas listens to his brief if intriguing tale. He has never found another, even among his fellow mages, who so brazenly embraces that place of spirits from which all magic originates, and he suspects that there are hidden facets to the young man seated across from him. 

_How fascinating._

***

Days pass and Othain unofficially tags alongside Solas in his exploration of the Korcari wilds. From their secluded place at the top of the Tower of Ishal the two dream, and Solas finds Othain to be more than willing to learn anything and everything that the older elf has to each him about navigating the Fade, about manipulating the shape of their surroundings, about safely interacting with spirits.

Despite the younger man’s obvious intellect and talent, it’s obvious that he was raised in the depths of seclusion, having little understanding of the world beyond the Brecilian Forest. Solas is certain that if the boy had fled directly to a city and hadn’t encountered him here, he would have sparked instant conflict, and so at nights he tells Othain much of the current state of the world. About Ferelden and Orlais, Tevinter, the elves scattered across Thedas. He tells him of the Circles, and the Chantry, and the recent Mage-Templar conflict.

It’s all a little overwhelming to take in, but he learns quickly.

They pass almost two weeks in that fashion, both of them having the unspoken feeling that they have found a rare kind of companion, a kindred spirit in many ways. Othain is wary by nature but with an inquisitiveness that often undoes his own caution. In scattered moments he can even be careless, with a subtle kind of temper that bubbles just under the surface, and it reminds Solas of his own youth.

Despite Othain’s obvious disdain for much of the world beyond himself, his curiosity often wins out in their discussions.

He finds Solas to be wholly interesting, a ponderous lake whose calm surface disguises little-understood depths. He is older than Othain, certainly, but he possesses a quiet wisdom and knowledge that belies even his age.

One day, Solas takes him by surprise as they are taking their lunch.

“Where will you go, from here?”

Othain hasn’t given it much thought, really. “In all honesty, I don’t know,” he admits. “I halfway expected Hadria to find me by now, but perhaps I am fortunate and she doesn’t risk leaving the Forest. Perhaps I shall explore until I find some purpose.”

Solas pauses, thinking. “There is a summit planned, a negotiation for peace between the rogue mages and templars, led by the Divine of the Chantry. I wish to bear witness to this meeting, to see for myself if peace can be achieved.”

The younger man scoffs. “Why? What concern is it of yours what fate belongs to these lesser mages?”

Solas only gives him a scolding look, a lifted brow, and Othain looks impishly to the ground.

“They are not lesser simply because they possess less power,” Solas says simply. “It isn’t about them – I journey across the Fade to bear witness to those influential moments in history, both big and small. Something tells me that I should be there, in person, to see it for myself.”

Othain gives him a curious look, examining his reasoning and rolling it around his thoughts. “You should go, then.”

“You could come with me. Learn more of the world, experience it for yourself.”

The raven-haired man gives it some thought. It isn’t as if he’s got anywhere else to be.

_Even if temporary, this is a purpose. Surely there is something to be gained by witnessing these negotiations._

With a shrug that disguises his latent interest, “Very well. It would do me well to see the world with my own eyes, after all.”

***

Solas insisted on their traveling by foot, or by carriage on occasion. They aren’t able to find many that are willing to give them a ride – something about Othain makes them wary, and even if the younger mage finds it frustrating, Solas finds it humorous.

“You do look rather dark and brooding,” he had remarked.

This changes when they come upon a caravan, halted alongside a dirt road and bearing a Chantry insignia. The lead carriage seems to have suffered a broken axle, and Solas leads a reluctant Othain to greet them.

“Hold, and declare yourselves!” Othain almost lashes out as he hears a sword being drawn, but Solas’ magic quietly washes over him, warning him to be still.

“We are merely travelers to Haven,” Solas addresses the Chantry guard that approaches them suspiciously. “We noticed your carriage is damaged. Are you perhaps on your way to the Conclave as well?”

At that the guard only grows more irate, but is silenced by a taller, more imposing woman who strides confidently to them. “You are correct,” she eyes them suspiciously even if she remains unintimidated. She is different from the guard in this respect, at least.

Othain inspects her curiously – she has a thick accent that he doesn’t recognize, although he wouldn’t recognize most accents from across Thedas. Her hair is black and closely cropped and matches her eyes. Her features are noble, cheekbones that could cut and a severe expression to match. She is more tanned than many of the people they have encountered, and she is dressed in a doublet and armor bearing an insignia that is unfamiliar to him – it looks like an eye sheathed in flame.

More fascinating than that, however, is the way that she _feels_ in the wake of his magic. Like a void in the periphery of his awareness, like static prickling along his skin. It’s a new sensation to him, bizarre and unwelcome. Even non-magic folk have some sort of connection to the world around them, are tethered to reality by the ambient power of the Fade, and of nature. She is wholly different, as if her ties to the world have been severed, perhaps altered somehow.

Solas is wary of her, more so than he was of the guard, and that tells Othain that she must be dangerous. It validates his instinctive defensiveness, and he thinks perhaps that Solas recognizes this insignia. 

“Ah, a Seeker of Truth,” Solas remarks. _So he does recognize it._ “If you are indeed on your way to the Conclave, might I propose a bargain? We can fix your carriage in return for passage to Haven.”

This Seeker, whatever that is, eyes them both cautiously. “And why are you going to the Conclave? How did you even hear of such a thing,” she asks.

_Intelligent, this one._

“We are a part of the mage delegation,” Solas lies smoothly, apparently having anticipated this question. Othain infers from her statement that this Conclave was a secretive thing, and wonders for himself how the elf would know of it. “We were separated from our fellows during a bandit attack further North.”

There is a long pause while the woman eyes them both warily, eyes flitting back and forth between what must make for quite the combination – a bald elf dressed in unassuming, patchwork clothes and wearing a fur about one shoulder, and a younger man enshrouded in a black cloak.

“Very well,” she responds eventually to their mutual surprise. “See to the carriage. We shall leave as soon as you are finished.”

***

In a brilliant and devastating, hauntingly beautiful flash of green light, the Temple of Sacred Ashes is destroyed.

They have only just dismounted the carriage, preparing to make the rest of their way to the temple by foot – separately from the Seeker, who is clearly uncomfortable in their presence. As they look further up the mountain, Solas pointing out the temple to Othain and telling him very briefly of how it was once home to a dragon-worshipping cult, they see it. It is too bright, the energy emanating from it oppressive and so _foreign,_ unlike any magic Othain or even Solas recognizes.

“What in the _Maker’s name-”_ Cassandra draws her sword instantly, alarmed, and they see debris flung towards them. On instinct Othain raises a barrier, enveloping their caravan with protective magic that stops a rather large piece of debris – part of some statuary, Othain notes in the back of his mind – and the hunk of stone falls dumbly to the ground before them.

The Seeker – _Cassandra,_ as she told them in the carriage – spares him a brief appreciative glance before taking her soldiers up the mountain path.

“Let’s go,” Solas calls to Othain, beckoning him to follow them, and the raven-haired man casts a wary gaze at the green light that emanates _still_ from the now-ruined temple.

“You want to go _there_?” he’s incredulous, eyes wide, his instincts telling him to flee far from this place, but Solas’ determination grounds him.

“If there is a reason we are here, then this is it,” the elf’s voice is calm, surprisingly so in the wake of such a thing, and Othain inhales deeply, steels his nerves. If there is one thing that he has learned of his companion, it is that he believes deeply in fate, in destiny, in those threads that bind all living things together in Time.

“This magic is _wrong._ Deeply so,” he says, his last defense against this rash action even as he knows he will acquiesce. “Do you not feel it?”

Solas’ does not respond, only meeting Othain’s eyes for a moment, and the boy feels his shoulders fall.

“Very well,” he says simply. He and Solas both prepare to follow the Seeker, only making it a few steps before they are interrupted.

“Hey! Gimme a hand? I’d rather not get crushed in this carriage,” the voice calling from the middle carriage in their now-abandonded caravan is deep and gravelly, another accent he doesn’t recognize. With a gesture Othain rips the door from its hinges, and out emerges a stunned Dwarf.

He’s never seen one in person before, and he’s momentarily distracted from their situation as he takes a step towards it. Him. His hair is red, pulled back into a lazy bun. His jawline is strong, and even though he’s squat he seems well-muscled. He wears some sort of leather jacket of a make that Othain is unfamiliar with, belted and open over a linen tunic that is buttoned only to his lower chest; tufts of red hair are visible along the cut of the collar, and the dwarf immediately begins to search the carriage for something.

“Shit, kid, you really don’t know the meaning of subtle,” the dwarf says as he rummages through one of the guard carriages, and Othain realizes distantly that he was a prisoner. He wonders why.

“Who are you? Were you a prisoner of the Seeker?”

The dwarf finds what he was looking for, emerging from the carriage with a heavy crossbow and a quiver of bolts. “Varric Tethras, and yes. I am… _traveling with_ the Seeker, here to share my testimony with the Divine,” he speaks with flair.

“And now that the Divine can be presumed to be dead?” Solas does not mince words, and Othain discovers he hadn’t even thought of that. What would happen now that this so-called _Divine_ is perished? Further conflict, presumably.

“Well, I’m not known for making particularly smart decisions,” Varric says. “So I’m going to investigate. Do you want a tagalong?”

“Not particularly,” Othain instantly responds, but Solas disregards him. “Certainly. I can’t see where it would hurt,” and Othain shoots him an irritated glance, one that only earns him an amused look from the older elf.

The duo – now trio – make their way towards the ruins. It is _utter chaos,_ bursts of energy escaping the still-swelling epicenter of the bizarre magic, a great green beacon high above the grounds of the temple. Traveling in the opposite directions they pass peasants, soldiers and clerics alike who flee in terror from the ruins with proclamations of the End Times, of Demons, and with pleas to their Maker.

The demons are of particular note, and Othain is more and more on guard the closer they draw; Solas and Varric are two, the dwarf with his crossbow at the ready and Solas with his staff. Othain is aware of the speech between them, their hurried introductions as they race up the mountain, but he doesn’t participate. If Solas wants the dwarf to accompany them, he can be responsible for dealing with him.

They draw near the ruins – up a stone path, past the half-destroyed remains of what might have been a halfway house for pilgrims, and stop short as the draw level with it.

The ground surrounding the temple is leveled, littered with _petrified, burnt corpses._ The air is charged and thick with this unfamiliar magic and Othain stops in his tracks.

“We shouldn’t go any further,” he says hastily to Solas who is stopped beside him. “It’s too dangerous, the Veil too unstable here.”

Solas doesn’t have time to respond, as they both catch sight of Cassandra and her cadre of soldiers approaching them from within the temple, the soldiers carrying something - _someone_ – on a stretcher between them.

The corpse of the Divine? Othain doubts very much that there is a corpse to retrieve; it should more likely resemble a pile of ash.

The culprit of the explosion? No, too convenient, too unlikely, and who would be stupid enough to set off an explosion like that while they themselves are present?

“Cassandra!” Varric calls, and the woman’s eyes narrow in instant distrust. Othain steps apart from the dwarf – it wasn’t his idea to bring her _prisoner_ along.

“What is it, dwarf,” she says through her teeth, the soldiers traveling ahead of her back down the mountain and towards the town – Haven, rather aptly named now.

“What happened? How can we help,” Solas speaks instead, Othain giving him an incredulous look.

Cassandra regards them for a moment. “I suppose you two cannot have been the culprits, having been with me at the time of the explosion,” she says warily. “Tethras, you are to come with me to Haven. You are not _needed_ here. You two,” she eyes Solas and then, more warily, Othain, “may inspect the crater. I suppose now that the rest of the mage delegation has been killed in the explosion, you are our resident experts in magic. Tell me what you can discover here, if anything. Report back to the Chantry in Haven.”

“Very well,” Solas nods tentatively. Suddenly, they are in a very precarious position, and Othain’s stomach turns uncomfortably.

***

Othain thinks he could be sick. Every part of him, his every instinct, screams at him that this magic is uncanny, unstable, unnatural, that he must not _be here._

If Solas is similarly affected, Othain cannot tell.

If there ever was a temple here, one cannot tell now. All that remains of it is a section of perimeter wall, scorched arches that once bordered what must have been a very large structure. The rest of it is either vaporized, or is among the rubble that rests in the air above the ruin, suspended by that foreign magic that bubbles and swirls overhead.

“Do you recognize this magic?” he asks as they descend into the crater, beyond what remains of the temple arches, into the epicenter of its destruction. His every nerve is abuzz with the energy, but he forces himself to remain calm, to take his cues from the older, more wizened mage just ahead of him.

Flanking them on all sides of the temple is a bizarre red crystal – it feels like Lyrium, but _more._ It feels primal, and dark, and it calls to him in a bizarre song. He tries to ignore it and the sickly heat that emanates from it.

“I do not,” Solas says, “But its effect is very clear. The Veil is torn asunder here, as I’m certain you are aware,” he reaches hesitantly towards the sky, and Othain can feel his magic reach towards the ominous tear in the Veil, probing it gently to no affect, and he does the same.

“I… don’t recognize this magic, although I’m sure that means little, but I can feel the damage it’s dealt,” he is a little alarmed that Solas is as lost as he is regarding the explosion. The elf is experienced beyond explanation, possessing quite the library of knowledge on the subject of the arcane.

Othain, while extremely powerful, talented in magic, has a skillset that is limited by his upbringing in the Wilds.

They spend some time in the crater, each circling it, remarking aloud their observations and testing it here and there with a variety of magicks.

“Othain,” Solas begins, “You are very sensitive to the eddies and movement of magic, I have noticed. I myself am not quite so much. Tell me what you feel,” he gestures to a large object floating above the crater, a bizarre amalgamation of green crystal and rubble. “there.”

Othain walks towards it, almost directly underneath it. He’s become… less frightened, in the time that they have spent studying it, his initial fear that the phenomenon – the Breach, they have taken to calling it – would react to his magic waning as they tested it. “I feel… whatever this foreign magic is, swirling around the object and then between it and the Breach. The two feel connected. I’m uncertain how, or to what end. Without knowing if the Breach is the intended product of this… spell…” he speaks uncertainly, “it is hard to separate cause from effect. Quite a bit of power is flooding into the world from the Breach. The object doesn’t react to my magic, but my magic certainly reacts to _it_. It feels… unstable. I don’t think we should dally here.” he concludes.

Solas acknowledges his observations with a nod. “You are familiar with darker magicks, yes? Do you think you could suppress or drain the magic of the crystal there?”

“I… don’t know. I shall try.” He brushes his hair from his eyes and discards his cloak, draping it over a nearby rock. The corrupt lyrium all around them generates an oppressive aura of heat and something _else_ , something awful that gets under his skin and crawls all over him, and it feels all sorts of wrong.

He extends his magic to the floating crystal, ignoring the way his stomach churns and goose flesh spreads along his skin. He attempts to tether it to the object despite his every instinct _screaming_ at him to run, and all at once the object explodes, expelling his magic and sending a surplus of energy at him along the half-formed tether.

Every fibre of his being feels alight, electric and burning, and he screams, clutches at his chest, sinks to his knees as his magic recoils back in on itself. He feels the calming aura of Solas’ magic washing over him, dampening the pain and taking away some of the excess energy.

“There’s too much,” he gasps, “and it’s _wrong._ Let’s go. I don’t think there’s anything we can do here.”

“Yes, let’s return to Haven,” Solas nods, concern written on his features as he helps Othain to his feet, bundling him in his discarded cloak. “In any event, I think it is dangerous to stay here alone. And you,” he says gently, “need rest.”

Othain only grunts in response, drawing his cloak about himself and following Solas away from the temple.

***

Cassandra, who quickly took the reigns on the situation in Haven, was not pleased with their discovery, or more notably their lack thereof.

Their observations amount to this: that the magic at the temple is unlike any other they have encountered. That it is unreactive to normal magic yet exerts an oppressive aura over other magic. That whatever that crystalline object is, it is tethered in some way to the Breach, and was perhaps the focus of whatever spell created it. That Othain’s attempt to suppress it resulted in excruciating pain and no notable difference in the phenomenon.

Othain felt that this was a good _start_ , all things considered, but Cassandra was very clear that she expects concrete results, and soon.

“What does she think, that we shall wiggle our finger at it and _poof,_ it’s all fixed?!” he sighs in exasperation to Solas, who is walking alongside them towards their temporary quarters – they are sharing with the dwarven rogue from before.

“She is under quite a bit of pressure to resolve this, and quickly,” Solas is empathic if nothing else, and at times Othain feels he is too much so. He grimaces in response. “And we, as the only mages of notable strength and expertise here,” Solas continues, “are under similar pressure to come to understand this phenomenon. The Breach is spreading, and reports claim that smaller such tears, that the others have taken to calling Rifts, are opening nearby. The further the Breach expands, the farther away the Rifts appear.”

“Whatever this _Breach_ truly is, whether accidental or not,” Othain remarks as he shoves open the heavy oak door to the cabin that shall house them for the near future, “It has destabilized the Veil entirely. I didn’t even know that could _happen._ Let’s extend the resulting chaos to its logical conclusion – if nothing at all is done, the Veil will be completely sundered and the real world could very well merge with the Fade.”

Solas makes a very curious, almost wistful expression. “That would be fascinating. But let’s not dwell on hypotheticals,” he seems to deflect Othain’s observation, and that makes the younger man pause.

If anything, Solas revels in magical theory, in _hypotheticals_. _What an odd reaction._

Solas deposits his pack in the cabin, at the foot of one of two beds in the room; the other is already claimed by the dwarf as evidenced by his crossbow sitting across the mattress.

“And now we are to examine this new prisoner, the supposed culprit,” Othain grumbles, then raises his brows as Solas reclines on the new bed. “And what are you doing?”

“I am going to investigate,” Solas says calmly. “Go, inspect this man that they found in the temple. Tell the Seeker that I have other tests to run.”

Othain, understanding, nods. If any answers are to be found about this bizarre breach into the Fade, then perhaps that other realm is the best place to look.

“Very well,” he says simply and, drawing his cloak back around himself, he begins to trudge _back_ to the Chantry.

Othain does his best to ignore the scattered, suspicious looks of those gathered in Haven. They practically line the streets, many of them resting, recovering before they make their way back to wherever they came from.

Since this man, whoever he is, was apprehended, their suspicions towards himself and Solas has lessened – Cassandra has given them a focus for their fears. Still, he is a mage, and even under normal circumstances he would be regarded with no small amount of wariness.

At the entrance to the Chantry, he is led by a templar – ex templar, he’s been recently told – down to the Chantry prison. Under Cassandra’s orders, no one is to come near the prisoner without supervision. It’s prudent, under the circumstances, but Othain does not like these templars. They feel wrong too, in a different way than how Cassandra felt. Whereas she feels blank, separate from the magic around her, templars seem to beckon magic towards them, drawing it in hungrily. According to Solas, this is how they block magic.

Othain is unsurprised to find Cassandra in the basement, observing the prisoner. The pressure she is under is visible in the tense line of her shoulders, in her rigid posture, in her severe expression. By sheer force of will she is keeping those who remain in Haven in order.

“Mage,” she addresses him as the templar announces their presence. He has learned she doesn’t like names, referring to people by descriptors or titles where possible. His expression remains schooled into neutrality, which for him is a grimace.

“Seeker,” he responds.

“Where is Solas? It is my understanding that you are _both_ to study this… mark,” her voice betrays a certain measure of distaste, or perhaps mistrust.

“He is exploring the Fade, looking for answers there. I have come to examine the mark,” he says simply and strides over to the prisoner. He is chained into the center of the prison, left hand glowing with angry green light. He kneels in front of the man, giving him a once-over at this first opportunity to actually _look_ at him.

Othain would estimate that the man would be tall, if he weren’t collapsed on the stone floor of the prison. He’s human, of fair complexion with cropped red hair. He’s broad-shouldered, with the build of a warrior, and Othain assumes that he is well-muscled under the layers of green fabric and brown leather he’s wearing.

He moves to squat next to the man’s left arm – the chains to which he is bound keep him seated upright, arms outstretched to either side of him, and as he watches he sees the mark visibly _pulse_ , and he scrambles backward as he feels a wave of that foreign energy fill the room for a brief moment. The mark is expanded slightly along his palm and the man stirs in his unconscious state, obviously pained by it.

“It seems that the Mark activates in some way, every time that the Breach expands.” Cassandra has come closer, unmoved by the burst of power from the Mark.

He can’t help but be curious even as his insides coil anxiously. He approaches the man again, crouching next to his outretched arm, taking hold of it by the wrist and prying his hand fully open. The Mark is eerily fascinating, even beautiful in its haunting way – much like the Breach is. He probes it with his magic and he can feel the way the Mark reaches out to meet him halfway, hungry.

“I shall try combatting the spread of the Mark – hopefully if it can be slowed, the prisoner will recover enough strength to awaken,” he says to Cassandra. “With luck he will have answers for you.”

“Very well. See to it that Solas helps you. You shall have whatever resources you require,” she makes to turn on her heel, but Othain speaks up again.

“Very well, Seeker. I shall do my best.”

She doesn’t respond, but she does give him a long, questing look, finally acknowledging him with a firm nod.

However… rough around the edges she may be, she is at least sensible. Reasonable, if harsh. He understands clearly, though, that he is to produce results of some kind if he is to remain in her good graces, however limited they are.

 _Solas is the more experienced healer between us,_ he thinks. _If I’m to have any input in this situation, it should come from my own… unique magic._

Solas warned him previously not to expose the more wild sides of his magic, the less Chantry-approved techniques, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t _know_ the safer magicks, and so he resorts to what he knows, which is rather darker.

He maneuvers to face the prisoner head-on, bracing his palm against the man’s chest and summoning his magic. It spreads around them, dark purple and smoky, enveloping the man and soaking into him, creating a tether between them. Othain can _feel_ the mark, how its magic spreads all the way throughout the prisoner’s body like a poison. He feels for it, flooding the man’s system with his own power in an attempt to force the mark into retreat.

It’s not the most nuanced approach, and yet it does work. He can feel the energy of the mark retreating, albeit slowly, and he pushes just the slightest bit more, wary not to give more than the prisoner’s body can take –

Static overtakes his body and he gasps, reeling, feeling at once blind and numb and his breath comes to him in shallow gasps, he can see but it’s too bright, he feels closed off from the world and –

He’s been silenced. That… _reaching_ thing he felt previously in his templar escort is latched onto him and he collapses to the ground, turning with difficulty to see the man watching him with wild eyes, another guard calling for Cassandra.

“What. Have. You. _Done?!_ ” he says between ragged breath, jerking upright to standing. This sensation is so foreign. He feels so small and broken, like this templar is stealing everything he _is_.

“What is going on here?” The Seeker’s voice calls, and the templar ceases his Silencing. Othain regains his breath, with difficulty, clutching at his chest and glaring daggers at the man.

“The mage was doing something to the prisoner, it looked all black and sinister, I-”

“I was _trying_ to fend off the magic that is _killing him_ ,” Othain all but growls, striding into the templar’s space despite the way the man draws his sword and takes a step back. “And you _silenced me?_ How am I to do my job if-”

“ _Enough_!” The Seeker’s authoritative voice splits the air between them and even Othain feels culled. He steps back, still catching his breath. “Explain to me what you were doing,” she continues, obviously reigning in her reaction. Othain feels what small respect he feels for her grow, even if only somewhat.

“I was… reaching out, with magic, into the prisoner in order to find how far the Mark has spread,” he begins. “It is in the process of overtaking him completely, so I tried pushing it back. Despite how _sinister_ it may have looked,” he glares at the Templar, “it was working. Already I have managed to push the mark back, even if only a small amount. I don’t think I can halt it completely, but I think between Solas and I we can fend the enchantment off long enough for the prisoner to wake.”

Cassandra regards him for a long moment. Othain is painfully aware that if she believes he was tampering with the prisoner in a malevolent way, she could have him killed on the spot.

It doesn’t matter how strong his magic is if he is silenced. There would be no defending himself.

“Proceed,” she says after a long look at the prisoner, whose expression is noticeably less pained. Perhaps she sees something there that tells her he is being honest – Othain doesn’t know what abilities a Seeker might possess. “If I learn that you are being dishonest with me, there will be consequences. Do not trifle with me.”

Othain can only nod, feeling for the first time the true depth and breadth of the risk he has assumed here.

“Someone fetch me Solas,” he barks to the guards flanking the entrance – the templar, perhaps eager to be free from the chamber, scrambles to comply.

When Solas arrives, he finds a bemused expression upon the elf’s features. “You certainly wasted no time in antagonizing the templars,” he notes as if remarking upon the weather.

“Hush,” Othain responds simply, leading him to the prisoner – he has spent the last several minutes resuming his former efforts to push back the Mark, and already the man’s face is more flushed, healthier looking. Every so often the Mark flares to life and the pained expression returns to the man’s face.

They work on the man for hours, alternating between Othain’s purging of the alien magick and Solas’ rejuvenating magic helping him to recover. All the while they are painfully aware of the rapidly growing breach, of the damage that the Veil continues to sustain with each passing moment. He is improving, but neither of them knows if it’s enough.

 _How does one even… stop something like this?_ Othain cannot even fathom the level of power it took to cause an explosion on this scale, something with the sheer strength to sunder the Veil, and the two of them discuss between them what it could even have been.

Either way, they suspect that this man had little to do with it. He isn’t even a mage, let alone possessed of the power to level an entire temple.

At some point their apothecary, Adan, appears with a store of lyrium flasks – Solas’ request, as the both of them are expending a considerable amount of power for the modicum of progress they have made.

“By the Maker, he has certainly improved since he was brought in,” the apothecary remarks after a brief examination. “I shall fetch some smelling salts. I do believe we can wake him.” Then, to one of the attending guards: “Notify the Seeker as well as Sister Nightingale that we shall soon awaken the prisoner.”

Othain breathes an audible sigh of relief. In this, at least, they’ve made some progress – some measurable contribution. Perhaps this will satisfy the Seeker.

***

“Hey kid, it’s gonna be okay,” Tethras calls to Othain, noting the young man’s deep scowl.

Solas stayed behind at the Seeker’s request; she wanted one of them to remain for the interrogation while the other accompanies Varric and a handful of soldiers to a Rift. Between them, Othain is much more offensively capable, and so was the natural choice.

They are to clear a path to this small Rift and hold it until Cassandra arrives with the prisoner. It’s the nearest one to Haven, halfway between the village and the forward camp. He and Solas have devised a theory about the Mark, and its connection to the Breach. They shall attempt to use it to stabilize the Rift – it’s desperate, and isn’t particularly founded in evidence, but the connection there is clear to see. It’s the closest thing they have to a valid approach.

“I didn’t say anything,” he growls, shooting a cross look at the dwarf when he hears an amused chuckle from beside him.

If Othain is a little put out at having been dismissed from the interrogation, he tries not to dwell on it. It isn’t as if he sacrificed huge reserves of his magic at grave personal risk, or anything.

Although he did.

“Watch out!” one of the soldiers ahead of them exclaims, alarmed, and Othain looks up in time to see a ball of Fade residue flying towards them from the Breach. With a gesture he extends a bit of force magic, tendrils that wrap and pull the soldiers from its path, depositing them gracelessly into a snowbank. Varric laughs again, and Othain ignores the indignant noise that escapes one of the soldiers.

The incoming Fade residue lands, the air sizzling with errant magic that is held back by a barrier that Othain throws between them. The residue forms a gross, bubbling pool of magic and in the next moment two Shades emerge from it, hissing and growling monstrously.

Othain crushes them both beneath a stifling prison of force magic.

“Shit, kid…” Varric mutters as Othain pushes ever forward; the handful of soldiers that accompanied them gawk at the casual display of power Othain trains his gaze carefully on the distance, ignoring their stares.

Their small company passes through a valley between two hills. At the crest of the second stands a small stone keep whose purpose Othain doesn’t know – it stands next to a bridge, or the remains of a bridge, that once spanned the gap between the two hills. It is there that they come across the Rift.

Smaller than the Breach, it’s relatively unremarkable at first. As Othain draws nearer to it he can feel that oppressive, bizarre magic that is becoming far too familiar to him. There are demons clustered beneath it – several shades and wraiths. As he approaches he holds his hands open to either side of him, gathering magic in his palms, dense spheres of brackish purple smoke before he releases it into the midst of the waiting demon.

The hex passes through them like a fog, stunning them for those crucial moments that allow the soldiers behind him the upper hand – with enraged cries and swords, bows at the ready they charge the creatures.

Othain watches in fascination while the soldiers do their job; immobilized, the demons pose little resistance and are dispatched with efficiency.

Again Othain carefully ignores the looks of the soldiers, pacing over to a low brick wall and seating himself, keeping an eye on the Rift. It seems to be at an uneasy peace, coiling currents of magic restless against his own.

“Keep your guard up, mage,” barks one of them; Othain disregards him entirely.

“You could work on your people skills, kid,” Varric approaches him, crossbow at the ready. Othain snorts in derision and says nothing.

_I don’t know why he insists on talking to me._

“Where are you from?” he tries again, with as much success. “Look, I get it, the people here haven’t exactly been friendly with you,” he continues. “But I know you’re just a kid. Chill out a little, talk to me. I don’t bite.”

At least Othain looks at him this time. “The Brecilian Forest,” he says simply, and any response that Varric might make is interrupted by a pulse of wild magic from above them.

“Stand back!” he calls to the soldiers as swirling green fog descends from the Rift, formless bubbling Fade residue pooling at their feet. The first demons to rise from the noxious, errant magic are struck down, but more continue to appear. Othain places a glyph at his feet, a sigil of Warding just as a shade lunges for him – it is repelled effortlessly by the glyph to then be struck by a bolt of black energy, erupting from his open palm.

“Shit, there are a lot of these bastards!” Varric calls from beside him as he joins Othain within his glyph – the younger man doesn’t respond but casts a barrier over the soldiers, begrudgingly aware that he should protect them if he expects to stay within the Seeker’s good graces.

Another Shade is sheathed in frost and then struck down by blade – Othain finds Solas appearing over the hillside accompanied by Cassandra and the prisoner, who is now wielding a great two-handed sword.

 _They gave him a weapon?_ He can’t help but grimace at that, but he extends his barrier to the new arrivals, unaware that his glyph has faded and the last of the Shades has flanked him from behind.

“Watch out!” is his only warning before he’s tackled from the side, a heavy body colliding with him and wrenching him from the path of the incoming demon – on instinct Othain bursts into a cloud of ravens, putting rapid distance between himself and the offending body before reforming several meters away, red-faced and startled.

It was the prisoner who tackled him – the man lands in a graceless heap before leaping to his feet. “ _Maker-”_

“You-” Othain begins, angrily, before he is cut off by Cassandra.

“I see. You are a hedge witch,” her expression is severe, and it makes Othain take several steps back, posture defensive.

“And yet he is responsible for saving this man’s life,” Solas interjects, diffusing the marked tension between the Seeker and the young mage. “Speaking of,” he leads the redheaded warrior to the Rift, grabbing him by his left wrist and thrusting the marked hand high into the air, charging it with magic to prompt it to react.

The response is immediate – the Mark tethers to the Rift, consuming its edges until the tear in the Veil folds in on itself and collapses into a bubbling pile of Fade residue.

What is left is unblemished sky, the only evidence of the Rift’s presence there the fading remains of its wild magic in the air.

Everyone is stunned for a moment, as the prisoner examines his hand thoughtfully before lifting his gaze back to Solas. “How did you do that?” His voice is deeper than Othain expected, softer too, almost like a purr.

“I did nothing. The credit is yours.”

The man brandishes his open palm, regarding it again. “You mean this.”

“Whatever magic opened the Breach placed that mark upon your hand,” Solas explains. “We – Othain and I – theorized that it could perhaps affect the Rifts that have opened in the Breaches wake. It seems we were correct.”

“Meaning it could close the Breach itself,” Cassandra, this time, her expression more optimistic than Othain expected. He steps closer to the group, still wary, now that the focus has been pulled from him.

“Possibly. It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” Solas is ever humble and the prisoner – their savior, now? – nods thoughtfully, is quiet for a moment.

Varric breaks the pensive silence, settling his crossbow onto a sling at his back and approaching the man. “Good to know! And here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever. Varric Tethras – rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.” A wink at Cassandra, then, met with a derisive grimace.

“Maxwell Trevelyan. That’s a nice crossbow you have there,” the man is friendly, responding to Varric’s natural charisma in kind. The rogue grins widely.

“Ah, isn’t she? Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

Othain rolls his eyes. He named his crossbow _Bianca._ Cassandra mirrors Othain’s reaction, and Solas approaches the young man.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

Varric interrupts before the Maxwell can respond. “He means, _I kept that mark from killing you while you slept._ ”

“Then I owe you my thanks,” the prisoner says with an acknowledging nod, and Solas chuckles.

“Thank my friend. He is the one who discovered the means by which to save you, not I,” Solas says and Othain tenses again as the warrior’s attention returns to him. Then, to the raven-haired one: “You should introduce yourself.”

Schooling his expression into a scowl, Othain steps slightly closer to the group. “My name is Othain,” he says simply and then, after a meaningful look from Solas, “It’s good to see I didn’t waste my time.”

Maxwell is understandably lost for words, stumbling over himself a little. “T-thank you?” he says uncertainly and Othain simply huffs, shooting an irate glance at Solas and Varric, much to their mutual amusement. 

“We should make our way to the forward camp,” he says simply and in a sweep of his robes he turns towards the path. 

He can’t make out what Varric says behind him and he sets his expression into a firm grimace. A moment later he feels Solas’ magic beside him, a calm presence and he feels some small tension release from his shoulders.

“I can understand why you are so guarded,” the elf says from beside him. “But there is something to be said for giving others a chance.”

“I…” he spares a glance behind him, finding the prisoner’s gaze already upon him – he snaps his attention firmly forward and huffs. “Have never been around non-magic folk before. I don’t trust them – one of their templars severed my connection to my magic earlier and it was-”

A hand lands reassuringly on his shoulder. “I understand, friend. Yet just as not all mages are malevolent, not all non-mages are either. Not even all templars abuse their power.”

“Hmph. We shall see. The Seeker seems quite ready to be rid of a _hedge witch._ ”

“That means less now than it might have in the past,” Solas reminds him. “In the wake of the mage rebellion, we are all apostates, and she is a smart woman. She understands that she needs our help, for now.”

 _For now._ They press onward. Just ahead of the forward camp, another Rift has opened; a meager few wraiths emerge from its depths and are dispatched with relative ease.

“Again, just as before!” Solas calls to Maxwell, and this time he doesn’t need Solas to prime the mark – it readily tethers to the Rift, consuming it hungrily.

Those at the forward camp are understandably happy to see the Rift closed, with the notable exception of some Chantry Father, who they find in the midst of a heated debate with a redheaded woman.

Upon noticing their group, the grizzled old Father straightens from where he was hunched over a map of the region. “And here they are.”

The woman turns around towards them, her face grave. “Chancellor Roderick, this is-”

“I _know_ who he is,” he growls; Othain can practically hear Cassandra’s teeth grinding, and he imagines she is quite tired of dealing with the old man. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution!”

This is not what Cassandra was prepared to hear, and she approaches him aggressively. “ _Order_ me? You are a glorified clerk, a bureaucrat-”

“-and you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

“We serve the Most Holy,” interjects the other woman, before she gives a chastising look to Cassandra. “As you well know.”

Her tactful interjection forces them into uneasy peace; Othain decides that between the Chancellor and the Seeker, he prefers the latter. At the very least she seems competent.

“Justinia is dead,” Roderick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with sudden exhaustion. “We must elect a new Divine and follow her orders on this matter.”

“And what of the Breach?”

This time it’s Maxwell who interjects, and Othain can’t help but feel appreciative of it. At least _someone_ is focused on what matters here; he knows Solas agrees.

“The situation is hopeless,” Roderick responds, then casts a look that is almost sympathetic to the Seeker. “Call the retreat, Seeker. Our position here is all but lost.”

“We can stop this,” Cassandra responds confidently. “We have sealed two Rifts already. We must try.”

“You’ll never reach the temple, even with all your soldiers. Demons have been raining from that cursed monstrosity for hours now.”

As expected, the Chancellor’s ‘advice’ is swept aside – the Breach flashes, releasing more of its chaotic magic, Maxwell groaning painfully thanks to the agitated Mark.

He sinks to his feet, his breathing deep.

“You two, see to his mark,” Cassandra commands, eyeing the Chancellor reproachfully. “We shall set a path to the Temple and be on our way once you are done.”

“Very well,” Solas answers for them and Othain makes his way grudgingly to the man.

“Pathetic, isn’t it,” Maxwell remarks through gritted teeth. “But I’ll be damned if it isn’t _bloody painful._ ”

Othain surprises all of them when he braces a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “You… aren’t pathetic,” he says gently. Then, with a grim, sarcastic smile: “What is pathetic is that useless old man insisting that we not even make the attempt.”

He can see Maxwell’s appreciation for his attempt at reassurance.

“Now this is going to be… uncomfortable, I’m sure. I have to flood your body with magic to push the corruption of the Mark back.” Othain explains calmly, pressing a hand against Maxwell’s chest. “Try to relax.”

Again, plumes of dark purple magic flow from all around him and coalesce around Maxwell, coiling around him and seeping into his skin. He gasps, eyes unfocused, and Othain tries not to dwell on the expression; he pushes as far as he dares before pulling his power back, catching the collapsing man against his shoulder.

Solas is next, rejuvenating energy cascading over the exhausted man and helping him to recover from the intensity of Othain’s treatment.

“Sorry,” Othain whispers, inaudible to anyone but himself, Maxwell and Solas, and in moments the warrior is breathing easier.

Maxwell sits back on his feet, examining once again his outstretched arm; the Mark is more muted, for now. “That’s incredible,” he says softly, and Othain pulls him to standing.

“I’m sorry we don’t have more time for you to recover,” Solas says as Cassandra approaches them.

“If you are ready, Trevelyan, we have our path.”

***

“This is where you walked out of the Fade and our people found you. They say a woman was in the Rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

Othain sees the way Maxwell pales considerably – even upon returning, the Temple is more than daunting. The air is so thick with magic that he’s certain even a non-mage can feel it. Their little group passes once more beneath the ruined and charred archway. Maxwell makes his way to the stone railing at the edge of the crater.

At the same time the redheaded woman – Leliana, according to Varric – arrives with archers and soldiers, sparing no time in maneuvering them into position.

“I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can reach it, much less close it.” Maxwell is looking all the way to the Breach – Solas steps in, redirects his attention to the inactive cluster of crystals in the center of the crater.

“This Rift is the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Maxwell swallows, hard. They make their way to the right and down the slope into the crater.

The red crystals are lyrium, according to Varric; he seems to be familiar with it.

_Now is the hour of our Victory._

The air is pierced by the sound of a voice, deep and rasping, atmospheric in that it seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Othain halts mid-step, glancing around them anxiously. Whose voice was that?

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra mirrors his thoughts.

“The Veil is worn so thin here,” Othain remarks, reaching out and feeling the way the ambient magick of the Breach courses over him. “Time bleeds through the wound, echoes what happened here.”

“Therefore, at a guess: the person who created the Breach.” Solas adds, and no one is quite sure how to react. That certainly isn’t Maxwell’s voice. They continue their descent into the crater.

_Keep the sacrifice still._

The voice again, followed by another - this one a woman’s, accented, frail with age.

_Someone help me!_

“That is Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra halts again, examining the crater suspiciously, as if she expects to find the deceased Divine there. When she is ultimately disappointed she huffs an exasperated sigh, motioning for them to continue.

Then, as they reach the floor of the crater, in what is unmistakably Maxwell’s voice:

_What’s going on here?_

Cassandra whirls on him. “That was your voice! The Most Holy called out to you! But then…”

She is interrupted by a flash of light from the Rift – Othain prepares to defend himself, as do the others, expecting that the Rift has come to life, but what they find instead are spectral images – the vague silhouette of some tall and slender figure and then, suspended in the air, another figure, this one in robes – it’s face is almost discernible, and even Othain can tell that it’s the figure of the Divine.

_Run while you can! Warn them!_

_We have an intruder. Kill the boy._

A third figure appears, what must be Maxwell – there is a rush of movement, a flash of light, and the illusion is dispelled.

“You _were_ there! What happened?! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she… is this vision true? What are we seeing?” Cassandra grabs Maxwell by his shoulders, her eyes wild and expression desperate.

“I don’t remember,” the man insists; after a moment, Cassandra takes a weary step back.

“As I said,” Othain interjects. “The Fade bleeds into this place – the spirits echo what happened hear, having born witness to it themselves.”

Cassandra turns her gaze on him, carefully composing herself. “You mean to say this is what truthfully happened?”

“Perhaps.”

Cassandra growls in response and turns on her heel, back to the Rift. Solas paces closer to it, hand outstretched, probing the Rift carefully.

“This Rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albeit temporarily,” he muses. “I believe that with the mark the Rift can be re-opened, and then sealed properly, and safely.” He turns back to the assembled. “However, opening it will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons!” Cassandra calls to the surrounding soldiers, archers. “Into your positions! At the ready!” There is a shuffling of fabric, footsteps on stone, every little sound magnified by the peculiar atmosphere of the crater.

“How do I…?” Maxwell looks to Othain, expression searching; the mage steps forward, leading the warrior to stand just under the Rift. “Focus on the Rift,” he says quietly, taking the man’s wrist and lifting it high, helping him to prime the Mark with the barest hint of magic and it sparks to life.

The mark finds the Rift instantly, prying the crystal apart; it falls open in a wave of green magic and Othain pulls Maxwell back, the two of them backpedaling as pools of demonic energy begin to fall from the aperture into the Veil.

None of them are prepared to see a demon of Pride emerge from the Rift – enormous, scaled and crackling with electricity, its arrogant laughter fills the crater as it fully materializes.

 _Shit._ Othain throws a barrier over himself and anyone nearby in the split moment before the Pride Demon releases wild magic into the area around itself, sparks and plasma flung through the air and sizzling against his barrier with a quiet hiss. The demon finds Maxwell from among the crowd, drawn to his Marked hand.

Othain acts on instinct, exploding into a cloud of ravens and flying directly for the beast’s head, distracting it for a moment before flying away – it sends a bolt of white-hot plasma arcing past him as he lands, winded, upon the stone. The archers are firing away, their bolts and arrows clattering mostly uselessly against its scales. Cassandra and their small handful of warriors – Maxwell included – are attempting to challenge the beast.

 _Idiots._ As the beast moves to swipe at Cassandra, Othain reaches out with his force magic, stalling its hand only long enough for the Seeker to duck and roll out of its way.

Pulling from the depths of his reserves of power, Othain lashes out at the beast, shackling it in force magic and attempting to pin it place, forcing it to one knee in an unrelenting, crushing force. The warriors seize the opportunity, striking at its arms, its legs, wherever they can reach.

He knows he cannot hold it much longer despite how Solas is lending his strength, the elf’s quiet magic bolstering his own attempt to hold the monster in place. “ _Get Clear!”_ he cries, just before the demon breaks free of his hold in a wild cascade of energy. The demon’s piercing roar fills the crater – they’ve wounded it deeply, and Othain senses its attempt to weave some magic around it, an attempt at protecting itself.

He pools magic in between his palms – a hissing, coiling hex – and releases it at the demon in a desperate attempt to interrupt its spell. The demon recoils, stunned as its pent-up power is released against it and the hex settles into its skin, eating away at it, brought to its knees again.

Maxwell seizes the opportunity. Sword in hand he flings himself at the beast, and Othain’s breath catches in his throat as he watches the blade plunge deeply into the creature’s chest –

An enormous, clawed hand catches him about the waist and throws him from the beast. Maxwell collides with a protruding piece of stone rubble, sinking to the ground, barely conscious. Othain is at his side in a flurry of wings and feathers, heart pounding in his chest.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” he yells, hands fisting in Maxwell’s tunic. “Your _one job_ was to survive long enough to close this Rift,” he berates the man, more quietly this time. There’s a scale embedded in his gut, the man is fading quickly. He pulls the scale out hastily, trying his best to ignore the way blood flows from the wound or how the man protests, pain written across his ghostly white features. Othain knows what he must do, even if the thought of it sends a wave of nausea through his body.

He braces his hand against the man’s chest, magic settling into the skin and grasping at him, taking on the other’s pain.

Skin is rent open, the last of his breath fleeing his chest, pain radiating across his abdomen and he doubles over, sinks to the ground.

Maxwell hovers over him with equal parts relief and horror written across his face, reluctant to leave him there, but he, too, knows what he must do, and he turns his attention towards sealing the rift.

Othain does not hear the voices who call out to him, doesn’t register the feeling of arms lifting him as he slides out of consciousness.

***

_You’re a fool, boy._

_This world is darker, crueler, and stronger than you will ever be._

_What did you expect, traipsin’ around outside the Forest?_

And the world is dark, certainly. Silent, and empty. The only thing he senses in this void is the stirrings of some energy, something foreign, some quiet power. It’s familiar somehow, even if he doesn’t know why, and he reaches for it.

It snakes and winds its way around him, even if he isn’t sure where _he_ begins, and where _he_ ends, but whatever it is it’s warm, and quiet, and strong, and he latches onto it even as he can feel it tugging on the edges of his form. The black fades into grey, miscellaneous colors bleeding into his awareness and the thing, the magic _pulls_ on him.

Further and further, and he becomes dimly aware of his body – it’s where the magic is, the magic that is taking his torn edges and pulling them together, the electric feeling of lyrium in his veins.

It floods his body, pressing against his edges and revealing his shape – he stirs, but is met with pressure against his limbs.

“I think he’s waking up,” some unknown voice, he thinks. He doesn’t recognize it in this moment. It is deep, though, if in a far-off kind of way, and soft.

“It would seem so.” This voice is more familiar.

“More lyrium?” “No, I think not.”

“Othain, can you hear me? You must try to open your eyes.”

“Mmph,” he groans, and is startled by the sensation of air moving through his chest, of the vibrations of his own voice, and he stirs into consciousness to the sound of bemused laughter.

“Kid’s grumpy even coming back from the dead,” this voice is Varric, he thinks. He finally opens his eyes, blinking blearily against the light.

He sits up with a jolt, sudden and unexpected. “Where am I?” he gasps, looking wildly about the room, eyes landing on Solas and he relaxes slightly.

“You are in Haven, my friend, and you are lucky to be alive,” Solas says grimly. “What you did at the temple was very rash.”

“And yet you saved me. Again,” the voice from before – Maxwell. He sees the redheaded man beside Solas now, relief clearly written in his expression.

“I sincerely hope you sealed the damn Breach,” Othain groans and attempts to sit up, wincing at the soreness in his abdomen.

Cassandra speaks as Maxwell looks, almost sheepish, to his feet. Othain is distantly surprised to find the Seeker here. “The Breach… is not sealed, but it has been stabilized, as has the Mark. Solas believes a second attempt will work, if the Mark is adequately charged.”

Othain sighs in response. He looks around the room – Varric is here, alongside Solas. Maxwell is seated next to his cot, and Cassandra is the furthest from him, standing just a couple yards from the door. He’s in his quarters in Haven, and he realizes he’s been changed out of his own clothes and into some sort of cotton tunic and breeches. He fingers the fabric, far nicer than anything he had, having always dressed in cloaks and robes, before. It’s been many years since he wore a tailored garment.

“I need some air,” he says as he swings his legs over the edge of the cot – other than the tightness in his abdomen, there isn’t any residual pain. The others take their cue to leave, first Cassandra and then Varric. He feels an arm wrap around his shoulders bracing him as he rises to standing.

“Steady,” Maxwell says from beside him, and Othain grimaces.

“There’s no need for that,” he grumbles. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t see the incredulous look he receives. “ _Fine?_ You aren’t fine. You – I don’t know how you did that, but you took my injury upon yourself.” The other man releases a shaky breath, but does drop his arm. “I can’t thank you enough. I’m just glad Solas got to you in time.”

“It was necessary,” Othain responds stiffly. “It was only good sense,” he mutters, quieter this time, and he sees Solas’ amusement from the corner of his eye. “Hush, you,” he gestures to the elf, even if the older mage hadn’t said a word.

“In any event, it was very brave,” Maxwell walks towards the door, pausing just ahead of it. “Thank you.”

Ugh. “You… are welcome,” Othain relents, and a warm grin stretches across the other man’s face before he ducks out of the cabin.

Othain moves to a basin of water, leaning over it and splashing his face, scrubbing away at his fatigue.

“That’s twice now that you’ve saved the Herald.”

_Herald?_

“Herald? You mean the prisoner?” he asks, confusion written plainly on his face.

Solas raises a brow, barely betraying his own amusement. “Much has happened while you recovered. The Breach is stabilized, and many are now calling him the Herald of Andraste, thanks to a variety of things. Cassandra and Leliana have formed an Inquisition alongside him, with the goal of sealing the Breach and investigating those responsible.”

There is a long, expectant pause there, and Othain narrows his eyes at the other mage. “And?”

“And I believe we should stay.”

“Absolutely not. This is madness.”

“I know you have seen for yourself just as plainly as I,” Solas retorts. “All would have been lost twice now without your intervention. I told you there was something calling us to this place – we must see this through.”

Othain heaves a long-suffering sigh, slumping into a chair across from the fire, wincing only slightly at the sudden change in posture. “What would you have me do? Follow Maxwell and Cassandra about, playing hero? They hardly tolerate me here. I’m a _hedge mage,_ ” he spits, thinking on Cassandra’s expression as she made the accusation.

“In light of recent events, you might find their opinion rather transformed.”

“Hmph.” He huffs and looks into the fire, refusing to meet Solas’ calm gaze. He knows the other is right, he can _feel_ all that is wrong here in his very bones, and yet his good sense screams at him to run while he can. “Very well. I’ll help you play hero for a little while longer,” he sinks lower into his chair, carefully training his gaze on the fire and refusing to meet Solas’ appreciative, if subdued, expression.

“Excellent. I shall notify the Seeker,” his companion raises to his feet, making swiftly and silently through the cabin and out the open door.

 _The Inquisition. Very well._ He stands again, still slightly shaky, and finds his cloak cleaned and draped over a nearby chair, wrapping it around himself before stepping out into the crisp, cold air of Haven.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Othain discovers that actually integrating into the newfound Inquisition is more than he expected, and must learn to navigate situations he has never faced. The Herald leaves for the Hinterlands alongside his companions.

“You,” a voice he’s unfamiliar with, snide and Orlesian, behind him, “are an _apostate._ ”

Othain, his interest only vaguely piqued, looks up from where he was bent over a book borrowed from the Chantry library – a trite premise on magical theory, too watered down to be of any real use, but it serves to familiarize himself with the Chantry mindset, nonetheless. Standing over him, he finds what must be one of the few remaining mages from the Conclave. He isn’t familiar with the man, but he thinks he must have been one of those too weak or unimportant to attend. He’s very well groomed, dressed in a somewhat fine robe and hair coiffed in what Othain assumes to be an Orlesian fashion.

He’s sat on a low stone wall outside of his, Solas’ and Varric’s cabin, passing time while Solas confers with Leliana on some matter or other.

“So are you, now,” his response is simple, and the man bristles, chest puffing and hackles positively raised.

“I will have you know that I am a loyalist mage! I have never betrayed the Chantry, and you would do well to know your place, _witch_ ,” he sneers, taking a step further into Othain’s space. Othain now looks squarely up to the aggressive older man.

_The magic of this one is meager. Is he really a mage at all?_

“And I presume that would be under the heel of a lesser mage such as yourself? Or better yet, confined to one of your lovely mage prisons?” In spite of himself Othain feels his anger rising, even though he forces his expression to remain composed. He does, however, allow some slight power to escape, to swirl around him and this other man, but if the other notices then it only serves to fuel his ire.

“Lesser- Why I,” he huffs angrily, arms folding over his chest. “I shall have you know, witch, that I am one of the foremost scholars of the _Circle de Ghislain_!”

“Former Circle,” Othain points out, looking back to his book. “And I have-” He feels a slight spark of magic above him and one corner of his page lights aflame; he smothers it with magic quickly and snaps the book shut, rising furiously to standing.

_If this Chantry mage is set on testing me, I shall meet his challenge-_

“What is going on here?” Another voice, this one higher in pitch, Ferelden, no less arrogant. From behind the Orlesian mage, from the direction of the Chantry, approaches a Sister; her habit obscures much of her features, but she has fair skin scattered with red freckles and suspicious blue eyes.

“I was reminding this apostate of the proper place of a mage,” the Chantry mage says, his posture immediately smaller when faced with the Sister.

“I see,” she says as she peers down her nose at Othain. The raven-haired young man bristles under her gaze but says nothing – he’s been made more than aware of the influence that these religious folks wield in Haven. “I don’t know why the Herald allows you to remain here,” she continues. “You are a blemish on the already precarious position of this new Inquisition.”

“Perhaps because I saved his life, twice,” Othain bites, hands balling into fists at his sides. He isn’t familiar with how to navigate a conversation like this – a lifetime spent in the company of a hostile witch taught him how to defend himself from harm physical and magical, yet he is woefully underprepared to defend himself in this context.

In a battle of reputation, of social clout, he is as defenseless as if he’d been Silenced all over again.

“Oh? _You_ saved the Herald of Andraste? What rubbish,” The sister laughs. The sound of it grates against his nerves.

“Desperate people will say anything to clutch at fame beyond their station,” the Chantry mage agrees, and Othain notices with bile rising in his throat that they’ve caught the attention of several passerby. The realization settles like lead in his stomach that they are baiting him, hoping to draw a reaction from him in front of witnesses.

It makes him starkly aware of his first instinct when confronted – to flex his magic, a combative reflex born of years with Hadria. Such hostile tendencies will only work to undo what little good grace he has here.

He forces his anger down, leaving a bitter taste in his throat as he swallows it.

“Hmph. The opinions of the likes of you are of no concern to me,” he hisses. “I bid you good day,” he tacks on gently, deliberately. Fortunately for him they seem to have had their fill of taunting him and part ways without another word.

Slowly, Othain slumps back against the wall, the book abandoned on the ground beside him.

***

Othain scrunches his nose as if from a bad odor at the frankly ridiculous clothes being presented him. Ambassador Josephine, one of the Herald’s advisors and the one with whom he can already foresee having the least in common, looks at him expectantly and only a little demandingly.

“My robes suffice,” his brusque response hardly ruffles her and, if nothing else, he has noticed that her capacity to remain cordial at all times is impressive.

After a long moment Josephine huffs a small sigh – she must have expected him to cave more easily than this. She sets the small stack of clothes at her desk and folds her arms across her chest, taking on a more cross expression.

The Ambassador is intimidating even if not physically so; she’s short, dressed most often in elaborate clothes more fitting in a court than in the frigid foothills of the Frostback Mountains; in this moment her ensemble features more layers of fabric that Othain has seen on a person in his lifetime, an indigo coat belted over a gold dress whose sleeves begin in exaggerated puffs and descend in tiered ruffles. The skirt of the dress mimics the sleeves in its many folds and ruffs, and her neck is snugly wrapped in yet more gold cloth. She has olive skin and narrow, arched brows set above piercing brown eyes. Her hair is long and loosely curled, pinned in a bun atop her head.

She seems somewhat dwarfed in her many layers, and Othain can’t help but remark silently that the two of them could not be more diametrically opposed.

“It is rather not the point whether your… robes… suffice,” she begins in measured tones. “You are an agent of the Inquisition now, Othain, and as such you represent us. Dressed all in black, you do give a certain impression that… unsettles some.”

“Are you among those whom I unsettle, Lady Montilyet?” He feels some irritation rising in his throat like bile. There have been enough reminders in the meager day-and-a-half since he joined this Inquisition that he _unsettles_ many.

The Ambassador considers his question thoughtfully, which is already quite a different response than he was expecting. “I must admit that I do not know quite what to make of you, Othain. You are a mystery, as of now.” She meets his gaze with an exceedingly level expression. “Yet I will say this; you have helped the Herald not once, but twice now, and at great personal risk. For that much I am thankful.”

Othain considers her carefully – moments ago he considered her some bureaucrat whose sole function was to appease the menagerie of trivial lords and ladies and court their favor. Now he sees an underlying intelligence, tact and, perhaps most surprising of all, integrity.

“I shall… test these frilly things,” he says simply as he scoops up the pile of clothes from her desk and moves for the door. “And I shall let you know what I think.” He stops at the entryway, looking back at her for a moment and acknowledging her. “I make no promises,” he tacks on.

“Thank you, Othain,” she makes a small bow and he mirrors it, albeit less gracefully, before ducking out of the room and towards his cabin.

Later in the evening Josephine is pleasantly surprised to find a somewhat smaller stack of clothes returned to her office, with a note promising that should they receive guests of particular note, he is willing to – in his words – _truss himself up in the least nonsensical of these things._

She may have been equally surprised to find his script to be clearly and gracefully written.

***

Living in the Brecilian Forest for more than half of his life has done little to prepare him for his unforeseen relocation to the Frostbacks. In the Forest he called his home it was always warm – even if dangerous, there was little need for fire beyond cooking, and they were able to live in relative comfort. As much as anyone can live in comfort in that surreal place dotted loosely with Elvhen ruins, werewolf dens and enchanted glades.

Add to this that, for reasons unknown to the young mage, the people of this town and the bustling new Inquisition that occupies it are prone to _bothering_ him at their slightest whims – be they the Chantry’s religious folk who delight in stopping him for veiled insults, the Apothecary who has apparently deemed that he is the only properly equipped person in Haven to pick elfroot from the surrounding woods, or the Herald himself who revels endlessly in small talk and whose attempts at engaging Othain in the art are as frequent as they are futile.

_No, the only place in this frozen hamlet in which I am free from the attentions of others is in this cabin,_ he thinks sourly as he draws his cloak about himself, sipping at a bowl of hot broth before the fire.

Othain’s small consolation for the frigid climate of these foothills is only that the cultists who built Haven were very clever in thwarting it. It isn’t clear to him how they achieved this – for all intents and purposes these hovels appear to be just that – but something in their location, their construction, makes it so that they are effective in insulating themselves from the biting wind and frequent snow. As long as the fire is stoked or, as in Othain and Solas’ case, enchanted, the cabins remain quite warm.

If he allows his eyes to rest, tilts his head back and allows the ambient heat of the fire to warm his face, he can almost pretend that he is in a sunlit meadow, enjoying the thick silence of the Brecilian Forest that he never appreciated until he was thrust back into Civilization.

A spark in the periphery of his awareness startles his eyes open. One of his wards has been triggered; someone is approaching the cabin. Hurriedly he stands from his chair, setting what remains of his broth on the table nearby before shifting.

Othain folds in on himself, the edges of his form collapsing easily until he is much smaller. Content that he is unlikely to be found out in this way he curls up in front of the mantle again, allowing it to warm his soft black fur.

There is a firm yet polite knock, a moment’s pause, and then the door shifts open with the protest of frozen hinges.

“How odd, I could have sworn he was here,” the voice is feminine, airy, Fereldan. In his new shape he is able to detect the scent of Orlesian perfumes and, underneath it and indistinguishable for a human, a note of nightshade. He imagines that there is nightshade extract coating one of the blades she hides on her person.

Othain recognizes the voice as that of the Spymaster; he thinks all is well until he hears her footsteps grow closer, scent growing stronger as she more fully enters the cabin.

“He must have left in quite a hurry, his stew is – oh _my_ , how adorable,” Othain cranes his neck back, curiously eyeing the redheaded woman to find that she is looking down at him in return, an eyebrow quizzically arched. She kneels then, looking as if she is suppressing laughter. “You know, I had an… acquaintance, once, with a similar talent for changing her shape. I imagine it is very useful for avoiding the locals, no?”

Othain bristles at that, letting out a low mewl as he rises to standing, tail flicking in interest. _Very well, the game is lost._

“By the way, you should know that fennecs never have black fur. You should try for a cat, instead.”

Othain merely huffs before jumping up to the bed, shifting as he does so that he is seated on the narrow cot. “I was in a hurry,” he responds simply. “The hair is so easy to forget. What brings you here, Spymaster?”

The woman – Left Hand of the Divine, as he is told – gives him a _look_ as if to imply that using that title is inappropriate, but it is rather mild. Othain wonders what he could have done to attract her attention; he seems to draw rather more focus to himself than he would prefer or expect.

“My priority is to ensure the safety of the Inquisition, as you have been informed,” she begins, taking what was formerly his seat in front of the fire, and Othain notes that she lacks any of the uneasiness with which most others address him; the only other person who seems equally unafraid of him is Solas. Even Varric and the Herald, friendly to a fault, seem uncertain as to how to proceed when talking to him. “I do not believe you intend harm to anyone here in light of your actions. Yet I must be thorough and cannot ignore that there are certain… questions that have been raised about you, Othain.”

“I’m afraid there is little to tell, but you may ask,” he says as he rises to standing, pacing over to the table where a steaming kettle still stands – _if my dinner must be interrupted, then at least I shall salvage my tea._ Thinking uncharacteristically of his guest, he then adds over his shoulder. “Tea?”

“No, thank you. And somehow, I doubt that your tale is as unassuming as you say. Varric says you come from the Brecilian Forest? I’m not aware of any villages that are within those woods; do you come from Gwaren, perhaps? Or did you live amongst the Dalish there?”

Solas had warned him of this woman, and had advised that it was best not to conceal the truth from her. She had a talent for uncovering it regardless, and Othain thinks that he believes the older elf.

“No, I was raised by a witch there for much of my life. I do not remember where I came from before that.”

Well, there is _one_ thing that the elf had advised he hide.

The Spymaster’s eyes narrow at his response, yet otherwise she does not react. “I am surprised a young boy could live in those woods for so long,” she responds at length. “I myself traveled through those woods in the time of the Blight, and found them to be perilous.”

“The Forest is steeped in old magic,” his response is easy as he pours his tea, relishing in the floral scents of lavender and chamomile, a delightful yellow flower Solas procured for him in their travels north and west. “And it recognizes those who share its nature.”

“Why then, would a young apostate who has no stake in the Conclave come to Haven?” This question comes readily, and he suspects this is the true reason for her visit.

“As Solas told Cassandra-”

“Surely you do not expect me to believe you two were part of the Mage delegation? Those fools who antagonize you at every turn?” The intensity of her demeanor is not lessened by the amusement that plays in her tone.

Othain retakes his seat, taking a sip of his tea in order to collect his thoughts. _Very well. The truth it is._ “We were intrigued. Well, Solas was intrigued; as you can imagine, I didn’t much care about the proceedings,” he admits. “I accompanied Solas here on a whim.”

“A whim that led you to witness the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and into the Inquisition?”

“I suppose so.”

She regards him directly for a long, tense moment, eyes searching. He cannot read her gaze, and he thinks perhaps she has spent too long concealing her thoughts. “It has been a long time since I believed in Fate,” her response piques Othain’s interest and he examines her expression, stunned at the depth of feeling revealed in that ambiguous statement.

The moment fades quickly, passing like the shadow of a cloud; so that Othain is left wondering if he had truly sensed it. Something like regret.

“I have only one more question. More of an idle curiosity, I suppose,” she continues easily. “No one in camp has heard you say your family name. Is it perhaps that you do not have one?”

Othain swallows thickly, looking to his tea suddenly. “If I had a family, once, it is long forgotten.” His response is simple.

Another questing look, and he sips his tea idly. At length Leliana rises to standing, bowing by manner of a bob of her head. “Thank you, Othain. Whatever circumstance brought you to us,” she says, “I believe you can be quite an asset to the Inquisition. See that you make yourself useful.”

The mage only nods his understanding before the Spymaster sees herself out of the cabin. Leaving him with the sensation of being distinctly off-balance.

***

Maxwell pinches the bridge of his nose as he exhales, fatigue like a heavy cloak draped across his body. “None of this shit should have happened.”

Varric huffs a laugh without joy, standing from his place by the fire to stand closer to the Herald. “You don’t know the half of it. That explosion… it lit up the sky for miles, and you saw how demons poured out of that thing. _Bad for morale_ is an understatement. I can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

Something catches in Maxwell’s throat: a knot, the memory of hostile magic scraping just under his skin before something else, something raw and powerful pushed it back. “I almost didn’t. Live, that is,” he says lowly enough that he isn’t certain Varric would hear it, but he does.

Up the hill, behind the Herald, Varric catches sight of the flowing black cloak – Othain always looks as if he’s shielding himself from everyone around him, bundled up in layers of dark fabric and hunched over his crossed arms, pacing from one place to the next as if constantly angry. Varric can imagine being a mage of his nature in a place like this – _well, he can’t, but perhaps that’s exactly the point._

“Kid sure is… something,” the rogue says, and Maxwell turns to follow his gaze. Othain ducks into his cabin, disappearing in a flourish of black.

Maxwell scoffs. “Kid? He has to be my age, surely.”

“Exactly. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five!” Comes the indignant response, Maxwell folding his arms over his chest and looking pointedly away. Varric laughs his amusement at the response

At that moment the door of Varric’s shared cabin swings shut again and they see the young mage descending the hill towards them, books stacked high in his arms. They’re piled nearly high enough to obscure his face, the expression that’s eternally screwed into a scowl.

“Hey, Feathers!” Varric calls out as he passes by them, causing Othain to stop in his tracks and turn his scowl on the dwarf. His hair is long and falls just barely over his eyes, curly and unruly enough that it sticks out at every angle; this is exacerbated by the fact that he does nothing to manage the inky black ringlets. They sit in stark contrast against his fair skin, white like porcelain from a lifetime spent hidden from the sun. He’s short – not extremely so, but enough so that his eye level is probably at Maxwell’s chin, he would wager

The young hedge witch blinks, slowly, considering the bizarre greeting.

“Did you just call me… Feathers?”

“Yeah, since you do that thing with the birds, you know? It’s a nickname, kid.”

Othain’s scowl deepens, if that were possible; in the failing daylight the firelight casts shadows across his face, accenting his high cheekbones and brows that are arched in sardonic expression.

Maxwell finds he’s staring, almost scrutinizing the shorter man and he casts his gaze back to Varric, who is deeply amused by the way Othain seems to react to having a _nickname._

“I have a perfectly good name already,” he simply huffs and makes to continue on his way, but Varric cuts him short.

“Right, Feathers, anyway – we were wondering how old you are?”

“Figured you have to be about my age,” Maxwell chimes in. His own attempts to engage the standoffish mage have been rather futile, and this is the first time in the past two days that anyone seems to have met with success aside from Solas.

“Why?” Othain looks weirdly suspicious. _That’s an innocuous question, right? Just asking someone’s age?_

Varric seems equally confused by the wary response. “Uh, is there any reason why not?” Othain takes a moment to respond, seeming to weigh the question.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to tell _you_ ,” he says slowly. The way he emphasizes that last word only makes Maxwell question further – in whose hands, exactly, is that dangerous information? His scowl lifts just a little and he shifts the books in his arms. He’s such a slight man. Maxwell wonders if he has the strength to lift such bulky tomes for so long. _Then again, he’s got magic. He’s probably alright._ “I’m twenty,” he finishes.

“Wow Feathers, didn’t expect you to be quite _so_ young,” Varric. “I think you’re the youngest one in our Herald’s lil’ Inner Circle, huh?”

“Inner what?” Both Maxwell and Othain ask at the same time before looking to each other, the former grinning at their simultaneous responses and the latter grimacing.

“Nevermind. By the way, Maxwell is twenty-five,” Varric nudges the warrior playfully. “You two should-”

Maxwell interrupts him, shoving Varric in return just a hair too strongly, earning him a smirk from the rogue. “Anyway, Othain, since you’re here, I’m leaving with Cassandra, Solas and Varric for the Crossroads tomorrow. I wondered if you might accompany me there? I’ve been meaning to ask but-”

“Very well, yes, I’ll go,” Othain interrupts him in turn, shifting the books again. “Anything to get out of here for a little while,” he sighs, rolling his eyes, and then seems to realize he spoke that aloud. “-anyway, I shall bid you both a good evening.”

He doesn’t give Maxwell or Varric time to respond, shuffling away with his books – several moments later Maxwell realizes he’s headed for the gates _out_ of Haven.

_Wonder where he’s off to._

***

The fourth morning bell heralds the early light of dawn; with it, the deep black of the night fades into pensive purples and blues, the barest light of the Sun sending scattered rays of pink and orange across the frozen lake of Haven.

There are no horses to spare the sleep-addled Inquisition Agents who gather at the front gate of the village. Cassandra, unflagging, is the only one who seems prepared for this journey; the Nevarran Seeker never sleeps anyway. Maxwell and Varric bear the early morning well enough, even mustering the energy for some lighthearted banter between them, but their mage acquaintances do not. The pair of them are rather fond of sleep, after all, often preferring the sleeping world to the waking one.

“Wow, Feathers, you really do rock the bedhead look,” Varric says, his grin only growing under the baneful eye of the young witch. “Also, have you seriously not packed _anything_?”

Othain suppresses a yawn, shifting uncomfortably in the cold. Maxwell nudges the dwarf playfully. “He’s a _very serious mage,_ Varric, he doesn’t require a pack like us lowly mortals.”

“Exactly,” Othain tacks on simply, enjoying the look this elicits in the Herald who no-doubt intended to fluster him.

“You are all wasting time,” Cassandra interjects, unamused. “If you are all ready, then let’s be on our way. With luck we will make it to the forward camp by midday tomorrow.”

With that their group begins their trek; their path winds through the foothills of the Frostback Mountains and south, along the edge of Lake Calenhad, curving east towards their destination. Their forward camp is situated near the Crossroads of the Hinterlands, in a region of mottled grassland and forested hills crossed and dotted by rivers and lakes. It’s a region rich in resources and farmland, steeped in the history of the Avvar and the source of nearby Redcliffe’s wealth.

It bears the brunt of the hostilities in the mage-templar conflict; however, according to their Spymaster, the skirmishes perpetrated across the Hinterlands are the work splintered, crazed factions of the mage and templar forces alike. In the wake of the explosion at the Conclave the core of the mage rebellion as well as the remaining of the Order have retreated. Presumably they nurse their wounds and organize their ranks in preparation of renewed hostilities.

Throughout the first few hours of their march Othain maintains his distance from the Seeker. She predictably marches at the head of their group while the young man lingers in the back, closest to Solas and comfortably distant from all others. In the time since joining the Inquisition he has been distant towards the Seeker most of all, remembering clearly her accusing, condescending expression as the phrase _hedge witch_ hung in the air between them.

It isn’t as if he is unwilling to acknowledge that he is, indeed, a hedge witch. He is confident in his skill as a practitioner of those subtle, dark and natural magics that are bred of the isolated corners of the world. Places like the Brecilian Forest where magic hangs thick in the air and runs wild as the woods’ inhabitants.

But he decidedly does _not_ appreciate the connotation of inferiority, both magical and moral, attached to the phrase.

“So, Othain!” The raven-haired man is drawn from his thoughts as the Herald’s gruff voice sounds from nearer than expected; Varric is engaging Solas in conversation and as a result the Herald has essentially exchanged places with the elf, slowing to draw almost level with Othain.

Out of all the new accents he’s been exposed to in recent weeks, he thinks he most prefers the flame-haired man’s Ostwicker accent. It’s rhotic, broad, and nicely compliments his voice.

“Herald,” Othain acknowledges the man and, if his broad grin is anything to go by, then the Herald is undeterred by his curt response. He looks over to the Herald and realizes suddenly that the top of his head is only at approximately the other’s nose. In fact, Andraste’s chosen is physically imposing in every way: he has a thick and muscular neck set on broad shoulders made even more so by the padding of his armor.

“I’ve got to admit I’m curious to learn more about you,” he says, now drawn level with the shorter man; next to him Othain feels as if he is in the shadow of a giant, and he looks away uncomfortably.

“Leliana has already questioned me. I’m sure you could learn anything you desire from her.” Looking at the ground as he is, Othain misses the way the other’s grin falters for just a moment, a frown flitting across his expression like a passing shadow.

“She has told me a little about you, I’ll admit,” his response comes after a quiet moment. “In fact, the only person who doesn’t seem interested in talking about you is, well, _you._ I thought maybe I could find out a little more beyond just the fact that you’re a mage from the Brecilian Forest.”

This gives Othain pause for thought, and he looks at the Herald warily. “Why?”

“Because you don’t seem like the brooding bad guy that everyone says you are? Because you saved my life?” Maxwell sounds just as confused, almost impatient, unable to understand the other’s reticence. “Because I think you’re probably a good person under all that black shit?”

This startles a laugh, more of a snort, from the mage. It and its accompanying grin are quickly hidden behind a loose fist, and the Herald positively beams. Othain has dimples, he’s just discovered.

“I see,” Othain breathes as he regains his composure. “It really isn’t any concern of yours what’s under my robes, however.”

Maxwell barks a laugh, stark against the mist and twilight of the foothills surrounding them.

“But if you have questions, then ask them,” Othain folds his arms across his chest, glance cast briefly towards Maxwell, the last of his embarrassment written in the fading flush across his cheeks.

The warrior takes his time to consider this, enough that Othain is on the verge of snapping that if he has no questions then he shouldn’t have asked, but he speaks up before the mage can open his mouth. “What do you do for fun?”

“For fun?” The mage’s expression shifts quickly to confusion.

“Yes, for fun. I don’t think you’re one for a tavern. Perhaps chess?”

There’s a long silence as Othain eyes him incredulously. “I spent more than half my life secluded in a dangerous, enchanted forest in the home of a volatile witch. _Fun_ was never a priority of mine.”

“Well what did you do in your spare time, when you weren’t brooding?”

“I don’t _brood._ And… I suppose I enjoyed gardening, exploring the forest.” Then Maxwell sees as a new expression takes over his face, something almost wistful. “Actually when I was younger there was a time when I would escape to a nearby elf village in secret and play with one of the Elflings. A boy my age, by the name of Gylhen. He showed me how to ride a Halla, and-” Othain stops suddenly, tensing as he realizes that he was beginning to ramble. He shoots a sheepish look at Maxwell, whose fool grin has yet to drop from his face.

“And what?” Maxwell prompts, but Othain snaps his jaw shut as a shadow falls across his expression. “What happened?”

“Nothing important,” his reply is curt. “I tire of walking,” he snaps and in an abrupt release of magic and a swirl of black smoke he shifts, emerging a black cat.

The cat takes a running start before leaping into the air, clamoring onto Solas’ pack and settling into the top of it, earning an amused huff from the elf.

Maxwell is understandably at a loss for words, catching up once again to his dwarven companion who shoots him an amused glance.

“What did you do now?” Varric teases, an eyebrow quirked, and Maxwell frowns.

“I’m not sure,” he answers. “I didn’t think I did anything.”

“Well the kid sure is lucky,” Varric grumbles. “Wish I could just hitch a ride on someone’s shoulders instead of having to walk!”

Cassandra, for her part, is not amused, and casts a suspicious glance in the direction of the black cat nestled atop Solas’ traveling gear.

Alas, Solas doesn’t intend to let Othain laze about, hiding amongst his gear for their entire journey, and a half-hour later a spark of elvhen magic forces the young witch out from under the top flap of his pack. With a sharp yowl, thick black fog erupts from the sack, shifting to the ground beside the elf and re-forming in his shape, jet-black curls in disarray from his sudden ejection.

“You could have just _asked_ me, Elf,” he huffs, features cross and ignoring the amusement of his traveling companions.

Several hours pass unremarkably, Varric and Maxwell maintaining easy banter, occasionally engaging Solas or Cassandra in their chatter. Othain keeps an easy silence, content to watch the scenery pass them by. The day that greets them is much warmer, owing in no small part to their descent through the foothills and towards the lowlands.

Frost, pine woods and rocky outcroppings give way gradually to oak and elm, smatterings of green grass and the occasional small stream. The day is in full swing, the air still brisk even as the sun pleasantly warms the chilled travelers. In the distance Othain spots what may have been a watchtower, an old and vine-shrouded stone structure emerging from just over the tops of the trees.

This man-made thing holds his attention, almost reminiscent of the ruins scattered throughout his home.

The Herald takes note of it too, pointing it out to the Seeker in turn. “Perhaps we should stop here and take our lunch?”

“I would prefer we make all haste towards our destination.”

“Ah, Seeker,” Varric interjects. “Even _you_ can’t keep up this pace all the way to the Crossroads. Let’s rest and eat a little, this Mother Giselle will still be there.”

The Seeker gives her former prisoner a long-suffering look before heaving an equal sigh. “Very well, Dwarf. We shall stop an hour to eat and rest. Do _not_ wander.”

Varric and Maxwell celebrate their small victory, the latter glancing aside to find a pleased expression on Othain’s face as well. Solas seems as interested, and he strikes up a conversation with the younger mage about what this tower might once have been, the two of them speculating between them of what memories might be seen in such a place.

Maxwell and Varric look at the animated expression on Othain’s face as the two mages engage in their little discussion, then exchange a look that is perhaps fond between the two of them. They have known the two mages for only a brief moment but it is already clear that the two of them are kindred souls, often relating more to each other than to those around them, and it raises the others’ spirits somewhat to see that at least Othain is willing to engage openly with _someone._

Their party continues a little ways further down the hill. The tower flanks the beaten dirt road on their right just before it joins with the Imperial Highway on its winding path around Lake Calenhad. On the horizon ahead of them they can see the barest glimpse of that glittering expanse of water.

Othain stops suddenly, calling for the others to follow suit. He senses the pinpricks of foreign magic flanking the road ahead, perhaps fifty yards or so. Taking cautious steps forward, allowing subtle tendrils of his power to stretch and curl towards the offending magic, testing it.

“Offensive wards,” he informs the others, careful to keep his tone down. “We should avoid it and whoever placed them, there is no reason-”

“Whoever put those there is probably one of the rogue apostates,” Cassandra notes, her eyes like steel. “We should cut them down.”

Othain feels his shoulders tense, preparing to respond in his ire-

“I do agree we should confront them, but we don’t know if they’re part of the rebels. They might just be bandits taking advantage of the chaos,” Maxwell cuts in diplomatically. “But we can’t leave them here to prey on the next person to take the road to Haven.”

Othain resigns himself to merely shooting a glare in the Seeker’s direction before turning back to the impending conflict. “Very well.” With a gesture and the sigh of released power he annuls the glyphs ahead, suppressing them without triggering their effects, and then in a burst of ravens he is hurtling towards the tower.

He does not hear the others calling for him to wait; he would not heed it if he did.

The tower is a shell, whatever floors and roof that might have spanned the structure long-since rotted and leaving a crumbling, circular open-air affair. His multitudinous form pours in through the gaping ceiling in a chaotic noise of wings and ravens’ caws.

His barrier is up before he’s even fully reformed, a spear of ice thrown casually from his left hand and impaling the nearest apostate through the chest; he has taken them off-guard, and in a detached sort of way he notes that they are all very inexperienced mages, their meager pools of magic practically indistinguishable in the face of the depths of his power.

A wave of flame engulfs him, curling over his barrier and passing above and around him impotently. In the absence of his sight he reaches out with his magic, letting it wash over the source of the flames, wrapping around it and crushing it to the ground. The bellowing fire stops abruptly, only a few scorch marks remaining on the stone wall behind him.

The last one seems to possess no magic, instead standing with his back to the wall and a rusty shortsword clutched in one trembling hand.

_A sympathizer to the rebel cause? Or perhaps a mage of such meager strength that he chooses not to wield it at all._

“P-please, spare me!” the rebel, a young blonde man, says quietly and then again louder. “I-I won’t do nothin’ no more, ‘swear it!”

Othain looks at him for a moment, silent. Outside the tower he hears the noise of approaching footsteps, rushed and accompanied by the jostling of armor. “Othain!” Maxwell’s voice, Solas’ and Varric’s too.

“My apologies,” he says quietly, and with a flick of his wrist and an unsettling noise like a sickly, wet crunch, the man’s neck snaps. The body collapses to the ground like a heavy sack and Othain turns and makes for the door.

As he passes beyond the ruined door of the tower and by his Inquisition fellows he spares a glance only for the Seeker, a curtly spoken _It is done_ not betraying the unsettling coiling in his gut as he brushes past them and back towards the road.

Their trip passes very quietly after that, Othain now pacing impatiently at the head of their group, followed by Cassandra. Maxwell, Solas and Varric stick close together behind the Seeker, the elvhen mage looking troubled.

A little further down the path, Cassandra spies another place for them to rest before pressing on. It’s an open field alongside the road that’s now joined to the Imperial Highway, a small break in the stands of trees that fill the rest of the space in between the road and Lake Calenhad.

The lake is larger than anything Othain has seen in his life, stretching so far beyond his vision that he thinks for a moment that this is the ocean. The air coming off the lake is cool, easing some of the tension that’s built up in his shoulders and back even if it does little to uncoil the unfamiliar sensation in his gut. 

As his traveling companions all find various places to seat themselves and rest their feet Othain shifts, a lone raven disappearing into the nearest tree stand in a cloud of smoke.

“Great, we’ve scared Feathers off,” Varric sighs, his face turned down in a severe frown as he accepts some bread and cheese from Solas. Maxwell is alarmed at his statement and starts to his feet.

“What? Surely he hasn’t – he wouldn’t really run off, would he?” The redheaded warrior makes to strap his scabbard back to his tunic before a hand on his shoulder gives him pause.

“I do not believe that he has fled. He is merely resting. Our friend is still young and lived in total seclusion until very recently. Perhaps he merely desires some time alone.” Solas, as usual, is a bulwark of calm.

Maxwell looks unsure, but he does set his sword back against his pack, sitting on a fallen log and digging in his pack for a quick meal. He spares occasional glances to the trees opposite them, his eyes darting into their shade at every imagined movement. Varric launches into a story, one of his misadventures on the coast near Kirkwall, and Maxwell listens only vaguely.

Othain doesn’t return until Cassandra calls for them to continue on their way, descending in a flap of wings and a silent rush of smoke from the sky behind them; in fact, he does so discreetly enough that Maxwell and Varric, a little ways ahead, don’t notice he’s there until a few minutes later when Maxwell calls back to Solas to ask if he knows where Othain is.

“I am here,” the warrior and the rogue jump when the younger mage answers in Solas’ stead, and Varric breaks out into instant laughter.

The further south they go, the warmer and more humid the air becomes, and the thicker the stands of vibrant green trees and tall grasses grow until they become true forests. Their journey continues for several more hours, until the sun hangs low in the sky and Cassandra advises that they camp for the night; as they enter more fully into the Hinterlands, where the mage-templar fighting is constant and vicious, it is unwise to travel through the night.

Othain scouts the location for them, shifting once more into a raven and flying in broad circles through the area surrounding them, scouting out a small clearing in the shallow valley between two hills.

While Maxwell sets up a tent for the night, draping some canvas fabric over an improvised frame, he’s susprised to learn that the pack truly is unnecessary for Othain. Kneeling at the foot of a tree, hand braced against its trunk, the mage whispers something inaudible and, in the next moment, there is a sound of shifting and groaning as the great oak moves, its roots lifting and forming a hollow beneath the solid trunk, grasses and vines quickly sprouting and coating the exposed dirt.

“That looks surprisingly comfortable,” he says as Othain pulls his cloak off from his shoulders, leaving him in the shorter robe, also black, that he wears beneath it.

“It certainly comes in handy,” Othain says with a small note of amusement as he eyes the clumsy fabric lean-to. “And it’s much warmer than a tent.” Nearby, Solas lights a campfire with an easy enchantment, the small stack of wood that Varric collected catching instantly and bathing their small clearing in warm amber light.

***

“Solas, I have a question for you.”

The bald-headed elf looks up from his seat at the fire to find Cassandra looking… conflicted. Maxwell and Varric are preparing to eat, Othain having disappeared into the woods soon after setting up his hollow.

“What can I do for you, Seeker?” He asks neutrally, curious about what must be disturbing the otherwise stoic woman.

“It is about Othain.” The Seeker begins slowly, noting the way Solas’ eyes narrow at first. “The way he dealt with those mages, at the tower ruins. How… powerful is he, exactly?”

_How curious._ Solas considers the question for a moment; he isn’t surprised that she wants to know, yet he is surprised that she would actually ask. Cassandra is distant, he finds, and impatient. She prefers to observe things for herself and come to her own conclusions before asking another’s input. _If she is asking me, then that means she is truly at a loss._

“You could ask him yourself,” he says, “yet I suspect that Othain doesn’t know the full extent of it himself, Seeker. In truth, it is difficult to gauge; having been raised by a witch who was intent on curbing his growing power, it is likely that his magic’s development is incomplete. It is actually impressive how much he managed to learn under such conditions.”

“That does not answer my question, Mage,” Cassandra growls, her frown deepening.

“I see. As you have surely noticed, Othain has an uncanny affinity for magic, and vast reserves of it at his disposal. If I disclose his nature to you, how will you use this information? Will he be at risk from you?”

Their conversation has caught the attention of their other two companions, who listen in warily.

“I do not like what you are implying, Solas,” Cassandra barks. “I am not a thoughtless brute. I wish only to ascertain whether he is a risk to those around him. Surely he is at greater risk from demons?”

The silence that follows is long and pensive as Solas carefully weighs the question being asked of him. It’s a subject he has breached once with Othain, something that he knows is a risk if it comes into the public light, and yet he also knows the Seeker may very well discover it on her own, and soon, coming to her own misinformed conclusions.

“Othain is a Dreamer, Cassandra,” he begins, raising a hand to interrupt the response he sees forming on her lips. “A mage with a deep and powerful connection to the Fade, able to shape the dreams of their own as well as those around them, and able to commune with spirits. I can tell you, however, that he is at little risk of possession.”

“And how do you know that? I am told that Dreamers are particularly vulnerable-”

“In the early stages of their life, yes, Dreamers are extremely vulnerable to the dangers of the Fade,” the elf interjects, ignoring the irritation plain on the Seekers face. “But somehow, Othain was able to successfully navigate those dangers. A Dreamer who survives to grow into their magic is quite potent, and the Fade poses little risk for them as they learn to shape and mold it. Even among Dreamers, Othain is particularly powerful. It is quite the gift, something that will serve us well in the coming days.”

There is a lasting silence, conflict plain on the Seeker’s face.

“Well. You have given me much to consider.” Cassandra’s response, when it comes, is surprisingly brief and lacking in spite. Her expression is pensive, and Solas thinks that perhaps she truly is considering his words. He sighs and returns to his meal, hoping that she will defer to his expertise.

After a silent beat, Varric’s muttered “ _Shit,_ Feathers,” breaks the tense atmosphere surrounding the fire. Cassandra rises silently, pacing over to her tent and climbing into it without another word.

“Good night to you too, Seeker,” Varric calls from his place beside the fire, receiving an irritated growl in response.

***

The Crossroads is a secluded village, a smattering of huts sheltered from the elements by steep hillsides on all sides except the North. To the South, a broad, natural tunnel through a sheer cliff face connects the once-peaceful hamlet to the nearby road, and on the East a steep path leads up into the hillside flanking it. The Inquisition forward camp is there, a handful of agents and broad red tents almost as large as the hovels of the Crossroads.

Until recently, the Crossroads knew only peace, the sleepy village only disturbed by occasional trade, as the valley was situated between two roads – one moving towards Redcliffe and the other, smaller, a local path – and connected them through the otherwise impassable hills.

In the wake of the fighting that gradually scars the Hinterlands and drives its inhabitants from their homes, the Crossroads has become something of a refuge for many of the itinerant refugees, and the Inquisition has established a presence in the region by coming to the village’s aid by providing some security and attempting to alleviate the hardships on those who seek shelter there.

It is there that Mother Giselle, a Chantry woman who reached out to the Spymaster in an offer of aid, has taken up residence as she provides relief to the injured and sick of the now-overcrowded village.

The Herald and his companions make only a brief stop once they arrive at the forward camp. Scout Harding, a redheaded dwarf woman and one of the Inquisition’s top scouts, greets them and provides intelligence on the area: status of the refugees, the ongoing hostilities and the location of a local Horsemaster. His name is Dennett, former horsemaster to the Arl of Redcliffe, and a potential asset to the growing Inquisition. His estate is to the North and West, in a valley that is protected by the Horsemaster’s guard and also houses some of the few farms that have been untouched by the war.

Othain stands idly by while Maxwell talks with Harding; she seems pleasant enough, wary as most people are of him but focused primarily on her task. Maxwell and Cassandra question her thoroughly on the layout of the region, learning that her people have discovered multiple rifts in the region as well as roving bandits.

In the distance, on the periphery of his senses, Othain feels magic being cast, causing the hairs of his neck to stand on end as he looks in the direction of the village; it’s obscured from his view, as the path down the slope winds through narrow gaps in the rocky outcroppings of these hills.

“Herald,” he interrupts the three just as Cassandra was beginning to ask another question. “Someone is using magic nearby. Do you think perhaps-”

“Ah, _shit_ ,” Harding curses under her breath before looking to Maxwell as if fearful that he will react to it. “There aren’t any mages among the refugees, so those are probably some of the rebels. If they’re coming to the Crossroads, there’s nothing good happening.”

“Alright, let’s get a move on. We need to get there as soon as possible,” Maxwell says, already making for the path down the hill. “Othain, with us. Don’t go running off on your own.”

“I can get there faster,” Othain argues as he begins to follow. “I can make sure nothing happens while you come down the hill!”

Maxwell hesitates for a moment, but nods his agreement. “Fine. Be careful though.”

Without another moment’s pause Othain is off, this time a speeding hawk.

Once he breaks the tree line, Othain speeds over the hill and towards the Crossroads – he can already see the green light of offensive magic, feel across his skin the prickle of lyrium in the air, and he dives down towards the village, tucking his wings in to his side and heading directly for where he can now clearly see a mage locked in combat with two Inquisition swordsmen, members of the guard that have been installed to protect the refugees. He dives straight for the mage, raking his talons across the rebel’s face before collapsing in a cloud of smoke into his true form, using the pause created by his sudden attack to orient himself.

The mage is reeling, a mousy brown-haired girl in ratty, worn-ragged robes, clutching at her face where the hawk’s talons have left angry red gouges across her skin. Othain allows his magic to coil around her angrily, snapping her spine in one instant.

Magic sparks against his back and he recoils, hastily throwing up a barrier as he turns to see that the mage had a companion, an elf boy with an ash-wood staff. He’s throwing a barrage of purple magic at him, arcing electricity that crackles through the air and fizzes uselessly against his barrier. Othain extends a hand, purple smoke bubbling and pooling in his palm before shooting for the elf.

The rebel drops the staff, clutching at his throat and collapsing to the ground, still after only a couple breaths.

Othain takes a moment to collect himself, only turning when he hears the whisper of drawn steel at his back. The Inquisition soldier has his sword drawn, fear-stricken and pale as he stares down Othain. “Inquisition. I am your ally,” as he speaks, the voice of another soldier interrupts.

“Templars! Coming from the North!” Before the soldier ahead of him can say anything Othain disappears in another cloud of dark mist, racing to the northern edge of the town and reforming. His first instinct is to cast a barrier over himself, the defensive spell sliding over him like a cascade of warm water as he orients himself to the ongoing chaos. A lone Inquisition soldier stands against three templars, two more templars advancing towards the town away from one inquisition warrior who is clearly too injured to fight any longer.

The soldier who still stands is effectively cowering behind his shield, overwhelmed by the enemy’s numbers and his own lack of experience; as it is, he is hardly managing to defend himself against the onslaught of blades even as one of his foes prepares to flank him.

Deciding in the space of a breath to prioritize the life of the remaining soldier over going on the offensive, Othain casts a barrier over the poor lad, simultaneously weaving a hex through the ranks of the three enemy templars that paralyzes them, the feral witch-hunters collapsing in immobile piles of leather and steel-

A sensation that he now recognizes hits him like static electricity, the magic fleeing his system and he gasps as if winded, turning to find that the templars’ fellows are advancing on him rapidly. He backs away, desperate for breath and stumbling in the bloodied soil only to find a low cobblestone wall at his back.

The first of the templars is upon him, and he feels as if paralyzed himself by mortal fear. The warrior laughs as he registers the witch’s expression, he _laughs_ , and he says something through the narrow guard of his helmet but Othain doesn’t catch it, hardly registers anything beyond his own disconnection from his power and the glint of steel arcing towards him.

On some uncanny instinct he flinches to the side and away from the blade, ducking under the templar’s sword arm. He seizes the opportunity and tries to grab at the man’s arm, to wrest the sword from his grip but _hell_ he is strong, the templar shoves him against the cobblestone, jagged rock pressing into his back and the cold steel edge of his foe’s armor pressing into his chest. He is barely holding the man’s sword arm at bay but the other hand frees itself of its shield and punches into Othain’s unprotected side.

The gauntlet-armored fist lands with a sickening impact and Othain releases the templar’s sword arm. Beyond the static of his Silence and the pain radiating from his side he is distantly aware as the templar rears the blade back, prepared to drive it home.

_This is it. I’m going to die at the hands of this pathetic Witch-Hunter._

_Escaped Hadria only to die laughably against a former dog of the Chantry._

The sword does not drive home, even as he shrinks further against the wall. There is a tense, still moment in which confusion blooms in the back of Othain’s mind, before the body of the templar sinks to the ground and, stunned, Othain looks down to find a different sword protruding from the thug’s chest.

He looks wide-eyed back up to find the Herald there, and for the first time he understands, perhaps, why people call him that. Maxwell’s blue eyes are trained on him, concern written in his features even as the adrenaline high of battle is plainly energizing the man. He is breathing hard, face flushed with exertion and illuminated by the sun.

For the space of an instant, he can only think that the Herald is _radiant._ Awe-inspiring.

Othain doesn’t register anything for that moment, a second that feels as if suspended in time and stretched far beyond that. When he does, the first thing is that his _magic_ is returned to him, and instinctively he returns the barrier over himself, and now over Maxwell. The second thing is that Maxwell is saying his name, his frown deepening with every second that the young mage doesn’t respond.

“…Othain? Othain, are you okay?”

He nods, numbly but finally. “I-I am fine. You…” he begins as he stands straighter, casting a quick glance around him to find their opponents dealt with; his companions tore through the town like retribution, slaying rebel templars and mages alike. “… you saved me, Maxwell.”

A breathless grin breaks across the warrior’s face. “Of course. Now,” the Herald extends a gloved hand to Othain. “Do you need help?”

Othain realizes that he’s on the ground, having shrunk all the way down to the base of the wall, retreating into the folds of his own cloak. He numbly takes the hand proffered and stands, albeit shakily. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. I did tell you to be careful, Othain, you should listen to me,” the man’s tone is surprisingly light. “I’m glad you’re safe. Are you injured?”

Othain reaches instinctively to his side, still aching with the templar’s strike. It’s tender and will certainly bruise, but the barest of magic curled against his side reveals nothing broken, nothing torn, and he gently cools the rapidly forming bruise. “I’m alright,” he says, finally catching his breath and beginning to straighten, now aware of the Seeker approaching them just ahead of Varric and Solas. “Why are you smiling so?”

“You’ve just called me Maxwell for the fist time,” the warrior says, his grin turning playful, teasing. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I… Let us return to the task at hand,” Othain says, “We should find this Mother Giselle and speak with her.”

“Yes, let’s,” Cassandra interjects, having now drawn within earshot of the two. “That was very reckless, Othain, if we had been any slower you would be dead.”

The words hit him in the gut like the templar’s gauntleted fist. With a sinking feeling, Othain realizes she is right. His own foolhardiness nearly cost him his life. He had been prideful, unthinking in battle. His experience in true combat is lacking, and it shows; _what good is there in raw power that is unrefined, wielded clumsily as if it were no more than a simple club?_

“Yes, I would be,” his response is so quiet that the gathered companions nearly miss it. It’s little more than a sigh, a release of breath.

“There’s no need to dwell on that, kid, you’ll learn from it,” Varric’s voice pierces their somber air between them. He claps Othain on the back as well as he is able to, before turning to address Maxwell. “You go find Mother Giselle. We’ll start speaking with the refugees about the situation.”

“I’m going with Maxwell,” Othain interjects immediately, not noticing the pleasant surprise written on the warrior’s face. “We don’t know this Chantry woman’s intentions. I will protect him.”

“As you protected these people?” Cassandra’s tone is harsh, her expression severe, arms folded across her chest.

“That isn’t fair, Cassandra,” Maxwell is surprisingly stern with the Seeker. “He saved the lives of the soldiers here that would have been killed in the time it took us to get here. Othain, come on. Let’s go find the Mother.”

Othain nods, silent, and follows the Herald in a sweep of his cloak. His body feels as if still shaking slightly, adrenaline finally catching up to him and filling his limbs with nervous energy, and yet he can finally breathe.

With a moment to get his bearings, Othain truly looks through the village for the first time. There are several Inquisition soldiers that only just arrived from the Inquisition camp, and they are busying themselves with disposing of the corpses of the fallen foes, two of them carried the one injured soldier on a stretcher in the direction that they themselves are moving.

They find Mother Giselle tending to a sick man, one of several who occupy makeshift cots, laid out in rows in front of one of the village’s few huts. Her back is to the Herald and his companion, and Othain can only see that she is enrobed entirely in the Chantry habit he has become too familiar with. A woman stands nearby, dressed in embroidered robes in the style of the mages in Haven – she, too, has just arrived with the Inquisition’s people.

“There are mages here who can heal you,” they find the Mother urging the man, a soldier who is propped up on his elbow with difficulty, clearly short of breath and in sharp pain. Othain pours magic throughout the immediate area, his power curling and twisting against every person, every surface, probing for hostile magics. He discovers none, and draws is power back into himself, approaching alongside Maxwell and just a little behind. With a barely audible sigh of magic a barrier slides over the Herald’s form, and he thinks he sees the man relax a little.

The soldier protests, voice thin from pain and effort. “Do not let them touch me, Mother, their magic is-”

“Turned to noble purpose,” Mother Giselle cuts him off. They are not far from the woman now, and Othain can identify now her thick Orlesian accent. “Their magic is no more evil than your blade.”

“But…” he grunts in pain, finally allowing himself to recline into his cot at Mother Giselle’s gentle prompting.

“Hush, dear boy,” she says. Her voice is low and melodic, soft like cotton. “Allow them to ease your suffering.” She stands to rising, the Chantry Mage taking her place at the man’s bedside and brandishing a mortar and pestle.

“Mother Giselle?” Maxwell addresses her as she stands fully and turns towards them – Othain sees that she has dark skin and matronly features, worn with age but still bright with life. Her eyes hold a shrewd intelligence and she scans them both quickly as she approaches.

“I am. And you must be the one they call the Herald of Andraste?”

“Not through any choice of mine,” Maxwell replies bashfully, seeming off-balance.

_Interesting._ Othain hasn’t considered that perhaps Maxwell doesn’t embrace his newfound title. The mage assumed that the nobleman enjoyed the reverence that was suddenly thrust at him in heaps.

“We seldom have any say in our own destiny, I am sad to say,” Mother Giselle responds with a wry smile. “Yet I have not called you here simply to debate with me.”

“Then why am I here?” Maxwell asks, now seeming to be over his brief uncertainty. The two of them walk a little ways from the cots, presumably where they can speak more easily. Othain follows, yet remains deliberately separate.

“I know of the Chantry’s denouncement, and I am familiar with those clerics involved,” her tone is sober, conspiratorial. “I won’t lie to you; some of them are grandstanding, hoping to improve their chances of becoming the new Divine. Some of them are frightened – so many good people, needlessly taken from us.”

“And that makes it okay? They’re only fueling the chaos,” Maxwell challenges.

“That is why I have called you here – the Clerics are desperate, but perhaps not beyond reason. Convince the remaining Clerics that you are no demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe.”

Maxwell examines the woman’s expression for a long, thoughtful moment before responding. “You think an appeal will work?”

“Let me put it this way – you needn’t convince all of them, only some. Their power is in… their unified voice. Take that away, and you shall receive the time that you need.”

Maxwell nods; Othain cannot see his expression to read it. “It’s good of you to do this.”

“I honestly don’t know if you’ve been touched by Fate, if you have been sent to us… but I hope. Hope is what we need right now.”

Maxwell seems uncertain how to respond, and the Mother shifts to return to her work.

“Mother Giselle,” he says, and she turns to face him, looking surprised.

“Ah. I have heard of you, young man,” she says. “Can I help you?”

For his part, Maxwell seems stunned that Othain has gone out of his way to speak to anyone, most of all a Chantry Mother.

Othain isn’t certain himself, but he only knows that the conversation they overheard has left him curious.

“What you told that soldier, earlier,” he begins. “Does the Chantry not teach that magic is evil?”

“The Chantry does not teach that magic is evil. We teach that Pride is evil,” Giselle answers readily. “ and does not corrupt only mages.”

“You are the first Chanter I have met who I think agrees,” Othain says. “I wonder, does that belief extend only to Chantry mages? Do you think me evil?”

“Do you believe yourself to be evil?” Giselle responds. “I do not believe that only Circle mages may be good, even if I do believe it is safer for them there.”

Othain isn’t sure how to respond; he doesn’t know precisely why he initiated this conversation, or what he hoped to get out of it. “I do not think myself evil,” he says quietly. “And yet I am treated as such.” He looks to the ground, fists clenched in his cloak and pulling it about himself.

He doesn’t see the way Maxwell’s expression drops, and he starts a little when Mother Giselle’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “You would do well to heed my advice to the Herald,” she says. “Show them who you are. Your actions shall sway them more than your words ever could.”

Othain looks up to meet her eyes, nodding once, slowly. “Very well. I… thank you, Mother Giselle.” With that he ducks away from the mother, leading Maxwell back towards their group hastily enough to discourage the man from saying anything.

***

“If you are done here, then we should return to Haven,” Othain says to Maxwell as they rejoin the group. Do we have further business here?”

“The refugees need help,” Varric says. “We just spoke with several of them as well as Corporal Vale, one of our own. There’s a big list of shit to fix here, but the short list includes taking out the apostates AND the templars, recruiting the Horsemaster, and finding someway to ensure supplies reach these people.”

“Not to mention sealing Rifts in the region,” Solas adds.

“And dealing with these groups of bandits,” this time it’s Cassandra. “We have some days before we must leave. We shall do what we can in the time remaining, and if necessary, we will return after dealing with the Clerics.”

“Good. There are a lot of good people here in need of help,” Maxwell says. “Othain-”

The raven-haired mage interjects, tone short. “Yes, I understand. If we are to see personally to the needs of every individual in the Hinterlands, then we had better get started.” He folds his arms over his chest, grimacing as he speaks.

Varric and Maxwell seem amused for reasons beyond his fathoming, but that is of no concern of his – he huffs impatiently and turns to make his way from the village, leaving the chortling pair as well as the disgruntled Seeker and the amused elf to follow him,

He ignores Maxwell’s mock protests that _he_ ought to be leading _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like clarifying that I know that calling a Circle mage (former Circle mage) a 'Chantry Mage' is imprecise, but just bear in mind that that is Othain's perception of them. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this, because I am loving exploring this character. I've never written a character like Othain, such a mix of raw talent and innocence/inexperience. I feel like I got to explore Maxwell's character a little, and I look forward to developing everyone a little more. 
> 
> Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think! I appreciate any feedback that is at least constructive and not hostile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition deals with renegade templars and mages; the Herald and his companions meet with the Horse Master, Dennet.   
> What should have been a simple errand turns into a larger ordeal than Othain bargained for. 
> 
> After securing the horses, the Inquisition leaves for Val Royeaux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with another chapter! This kinda got away from me a little, I found myself falling into a trap of endlessly re-reading and touching up several sections of this chapter, and finally I had to just make myself finish it. Sorry it took a little longer to post this one. Hope you enjoy it!

_This horse master had better be worth it._

_Certainly, the Inquisition is much better served with horses for its agents, but is Haven even equipped to house them? Can these horses even survive the climate? Master Dennett can’t help us if our locale precludes the possibility of having horses at all._

_Ugh._

_Then again, perhaps Cassandra and the others know enough on the topic to gauge it to be a worthy venture. I hope someone in this business understands what we’re doing, anyhow-_

“Okay Feathers, did someone piss on your cloak? You look angry.” Varric’s voice breaks into his thoughts, and Othain realizes that his scowl had been deepening by the moment as they approached the valley in which the Horse Master’s estate was settled.

_How vulgar._ “No one did anything to my cloak, Varric,” Othain’s tone is little more than a grunt. “I am tired. We have covered quite a bit of ground in two days.”

And they have. In truth, the Mage and Templar encampments hadn’t been far from each other, which is perhaps one reason why their conflicts were so frequent and so violent.

Othain had naturally been instrumental in finding them, scrying into the clear water of a nearby river to uncover their locations. A small de facto battlefield had been established, the rogue templars nested in a deep ravine on the path to Dennett’s valley, and the Mages hidden in a cave in the Wending Wood only a few miles upstream from them. In the middle was the abandoned Fort Connor and the surrounding huts that the Inquisition found sacked and in flames. The fighting here was never-ending, the Fort consistently changing hands between the warring radicals.

Whether it was due to the reduced ranks of their foes thanks to weeks of fighting, or whether it was their enemy’s lack of information, discipline and organization, or due to their own prowess in battle, they met little resistance at either camp. In fact, between Othain and Cassandra, the mages had stood little chance even if the former had to ignore the tightening knot in his stomach.

After all, he sympathized – _sympathizes still_ – with their plight. He knows all too well the feeling of living under the thumb of another, and yet he understands just as well that the mounting chaos here is the fault of rebels on both side of the war, and that it cannot stand.

The cave was carved into a cliff overlooking a very shallow pond – spires of ice rose from the water like grasping limbs, enchantments woven into the ice so that the entire area was charged with mana, a clever way to build reserves of raw power to draw from in the event of a templar attack.

And yet it still could not place them on par with Othain, the hedge witch dismantling their ambient enchantment with a hex that unfolded from him in billowing smoke, curling around the icy spires and undoing the magic written there. By the time the rebels understood what was happening, the stored mana was fading into the background, seeping into the sky and the earth, bleeding back into the Fade from whence it came.

There were only a handful of mages guarding the entrance to the cave, and the witch felt a little something uncomfortable crawling up his spine as one of them was Silenced by the Seeker and then subsequently struck down. He hadn’t been able to erase that sensation entirely, that oppressive sense of detachment, of static clinging to him, of being so incredibly _small_ , and seeing the same done to another mage certainly did nothing to help, and yet he swallowed his own reluctance and pushed through.

The cave was guarded by an ice enchantment, a swirling veil of glacial magic that was simultaneously viscous mana and solid ice to the touch, a curious thing clearly woven by a more skilled mage than those at the entrance. It was torn down by Solas who insisted that Othain spare his power after having undone the former enchantment.

The magic emanating from those within the cave was rather more formidable, yet ultimately these were Chantry-educated practitioners, unschooled in the hidden arts outside of Circle teachings. At the entrance to the cave Othain motioned for the others to hold back, releasing a curse into the cave that sank into the limbs of their would-be foes, locking them in place and ensuring that they could not resist.

Othain may not have had a history of befriending mages – Solas was the exception, really, and that only because his power was enough to earn the respect of the hedge witch. The raven-haired young man often felt separate from other practitioners, those inherent differences between himself and a more ‘civilized’ mage feeling like an insurmountable wall. He coped with that difference by telling himself that it is only natural that they should be separate – he is _powerful_ , gifted in the arcane arts, and that that delineation places him in an order of magnitude above other mages.

Still, some part of him feels kinship with them, deep down. He is no fool; he remembers another life, the moment in which he could have been bound to the fate of a Circle mage. And he feels for them, for their struggle for freedom. It was no easy task to steel himself to fight mages, those who some might consider to be _his people_.

As he struck them down, he told himself that these were not the mages of the true rebellion – that these were the blood-crazed few who refused to listen to their own, and he hoped that that small delineation would spare him regret.

He knew that it wouldn’t.

The sun was hanging low in the sky when they left the cave, and they opted to make a hasty camp for the evening and then depart for the Templar Encampment on the road to Dennett’s valley in the morning.

Othain disappeared into the woods that night after setting protective wards around their camp, something that was becoming more commonplace. Maxwell was concerned, silently wondering if this was driving the young mage away, but Solas assured him that Othain merely needed time on his own, to think and to absorb in a setting removed from others.

_Particularly from Cassandra_ , was understood.

The Templars were a more troublesome bunch. Their camp began at one of the few bridges spanning the river that carved its way through the Hinterlands running from South to North, its source a waterfall set into the ravine that flanked the road. It essentially formed a blockade of the road and then extended to the South, up a steeply inclined path and onto the cliffside where the main body of their camp was settled.

Othain was uncharacteristically passive, hanging back behind his fellows as they approached and, instead of meeting their foes head-on in his usual manner, he preferred now to support from the back alongside Varric, their archer.

And yet it was here that Othain witnessed for the first time that Maxwell wasn’t just a nobleman who happened to have received the Mark upon his palm; in fact, the redheaded Ostwicker was quite the warrior, meeting his foes with a two-handed greatsword in flashes of brilliant steel, wielding the enormous blade with surprising agility.

Othain watched as Maxwell clashed with his foes in combat so fluid it could have been choreographed, weaving a barrier around the Herald and subtly weakening his opponents even if he rapidly found that it was unnecessary. The man must have had considerable training. His defenses were tight and practiced, his form disciplined even to the eyes of a layman such as the hedge mage, his blade an arc of steel that, coupled with his unrelenting strength and stamina, was able to cleave even templar armor.

His greatest vulnerability was to archers and other far-ranged attacks, given that he preferred to fight without a shield, and so Othain watched for those dangers above all. When they were met with two archers at the bridge, Othain jinxed the mind of the first archer, his shot flying wide and into the path of one of the approaching templars. The other one prepared to fire and Othain cast a hex on him that numbed his limbs, making him misfire and giving Cassandra the time to close distance.

Othain wasn’t a natural at fighting from a support position, however. Many of his skills were risky to use when the path between himself and his prey was unclear, and so as they fought their way up the path towards the templar camp he found himself resigned mostly to maintaining a barrier over the warriors and a watchful eye over the Herald.

He didn’t dwell on why he felt drawn towards protecting the man – and if he were to, he’d say that it’s common sense, that Maxwell is their biggest asset in sealing Rifts and combatting whatever malevolent forces were at work in Thedas. It’s only reasonable to prioritize the Herald’s safety.

Yet, despite his caution, he still found himself Silenced. They had made their way through the entirety of the Templar camp, had even confronted and killed their leader; they were not cautious enough, and one of the rogue templars had flanked them from where he had been hidden in one of their tents, Silencing the hedge witch and shouldering him to the ground.

Sword was raised in the air, poised to strike, when an arrow landed with a sickening squelch in the man’s chest, followed briefly by the cleave of Maxwell’s greatsword and the impact of a body on blood-soaked dirt.

Othain, dazed, wasn’t aware of what happened at first as the wave of pricks and needles on his skin faded into the background and his magic began to reconnect with him. As always, after Silencing, everything now felt too much – the sunlight filtering through the gap in the forest canopy was too bright, the sound of the nearby waterfall a horrid crashing, the fabric grazing his skin now rough –

When he finally sat up from where he had fallen, he found Maxwell’s hand extended to him, concern written on his face. It’s all too much, this is the second time that that hand has been offered to him in as many days, and yet he took it silently and allowed the larger man to lift him to standing.

He swayed, once, but remained upright.

Their business here concluded, they made their way in silence back down the hill, rejoining the road and continuing West, towards the Horsemaster’s Valley.

And now he draws his cloak tighter around himself, chilled despite the warming weather, and ignores his companions’ concerned expressions. Even if he knows he’s no longer silenced, even if he can feel his magic around him like the ambient glow of a fire, he still _feels_ it. It’s a sensation that sits in his skin, just beneath the surface, buzzing nothingness that makes the fine hairs of his arms and neck stand on end.

He still reels every time. Unprepared for the sudden and lurching disconnection from everything around him, from that piece of himself that is most _vital._ Identity grounded in it, Othain often feels that his magic is more essential to who and _what_ he is than his own body, his skin, his blood, his bones, and perhaps no one truly understands what Silencing means for him.

Solas could, perhaps, and still he has yet to see the elf Silenced.

_How is that? Is there something he knows that I don’t? If so, could he teach me?_

“…Hello there? Thedas to Othain? You know, brooding mage, black cloak, kinda looks like you just insulted his mother at all times?”

Othain returns his attention to where Maxwell had been speaking to him. _Right. Still here, still walking…_

“What _is_ it?” he says as he turns to face the redhead, and sees the way the man’s face falls for just a second. The Herald truly wears his heart on his sleeve, and Othain thinks perhaps his tone was more curt than he intended.

“…Nothing. Nevermi-”

“Sorry, Maxwell, I did not intend to snap at you,” he cuts in, somehow unwilling to see the Herald wearing that expression.

“- oh,” comes the eloquent response, the other man surprised for just a moment before a grin spreads across his features. “It’s alright. I was just – I wanted to ask you a question?” Maxwell seems to gravitate towards Othain as he says this, falling into step beside him.

“What is it about?”

“Well, remember when Varric asked you your age, and you said you supposed it couldn’t hurt to tell _us_? What did you mean by that?” Now that Othain is actually receptive to his attempt at conversation, Maxwell is all confidence, hands clasped behind him as they walk and watching the other’s face intently. Most people don’t make eye contact with the young witch, and he finds it reassuring when someone is willing to meet his gaze, when someone is actively unafraid around him.

“Oh,” he pauses as he considers the question, and he looks to Solas, who is the only person who understands the circumstances of his fleeing the Brecilian Forest. The elf seems to understand the silent question and nods his confirmation – if they can’t trust the Herald, after all, then what good is it to support the Inquisition?

“Well,” he begins again, “You know … essentially… that I was raised in the Brecilian Forest. I lived with a witch there, by the name of Hadria, who found me in the woods when I was very young. She raised me, taught me to control me power; witches are fickle by nature, though, and very selfish,” as he speaks he can see the confusion written in Maxwell’s features, the connection to his age not yet made. “Well, she learned quickly that I am…” another brief pause, “gifted. She raised me with the intention of harvesting my power when I fully came into it, planning to complete the ritual on the eve of my twenty-first year.”

“And you’re twenty now,” Maxwell says slowly, “So you escaped from her?”

Othain nods. “I used to try everything to obscure my age from her. Once, on the eve of my fifteenth year, I attempted to put her in a sleeping charm. Another time I tried to alter her memories. It never worked, though. She was in possession of a rare Avvar charm that wards one from harmful hexes and curses. Dodging the subject of my age is something of a reflex…” Othain allows his sentence to trail into nothingness as he looks up to see Maxwell regarding him, expression curious, brows quirked.

“Well, shit,” Maxwell says simply. “You never tried to escape before that?”

“I only learned of her plan when I was fourteen, so I didn’t have any reason to wish to leave. I used to enjoy some relative freedom to explore the Forest, but that was still rare. Regardless of that, the Brecilian Forest is dangerous for anyone, and particularly for young mages.”

“And when you got older?”

“She caught me reading the grimoire that housed her ritual, when I learned of her plan,” Othain’s voice was now very quiet, almost inaudible over the sound of their own boots on the dirt road. “She decided after that to force me to stay. She set up layers of charms, hexes and wards over her little sanctuary, designed to keep me in.”

Maxwell stops walking, and it takes a moment for Othain to notice, stopping in his tracks as well. Cassandra and Varric pause, but Solas motions for them to continue on, leaving the two behind for now.

“You mean you were a prisoner,” the warrior’s voice no longer holds any trace of his former curiosity, now flat and low. When Othain turns back towards where the other man had stopped, taking two short steps towards him, he sees that Maxwell’s face, expression as freely worn as ever, was etched with a grim mix of realization, shock, and something more sad.

Othain doesn’t speak, only nods. He can’t meet Maxwell’s gaze, the _pity_ that he feels there. Bile rises in his throat. _When did this conversation turn south? It was a simple question. Did I say something wrong?_

“For six years?”

“I lived with Hadria longer than that, but yes, it was six years that I was forbidden from leaving the cottage.”

“Othain…” Maxwell’s voice drifts, unsure of what to say. “I-”

“Let’s catch up with the others,” the younger man says, preparing to turn from Maxwell and effectively end the conversation – he isn’t certain where this became so somber, but he decidedly doesn’t want to be _pitied._ “It isn’t important,” he adds, doing just that, when he feels a hand catch him by the wrist.

“I’m sorry, Othain, I didn’t mean to offend,” Maxwell says hurriedly. “All I wanted to say is that you don’t have to worry about anything like that here, with us. You are safe. I don’t know if this witch is still after you, but you don’t have to worry about her,” he smiles widely and, even if it’s certainly forced, it still manages to reassure the raven-haired man.

In fact, Othain feels something loosen in his chest, some tightly-wound nerve that he’d forgotten was there. It’s something he didn’t even realize he needed to hear, and he certainly didn’t expect it from the Herald.

_Safe._ Whether it is true or not isn’t the point – what matters is that Maxwell means it, clearly. Othain doesn’t believe that the warm-hearted warrior has it in him to deceive.

Othain feels his expression lift into a thankful grin – it’s small, but it’s _there_ – and Maxwell’s grip on his hand tightens just a little. His hand is just like he is; it’s a little rough, and large, but it’s warm and it conveys what Maxwell intends.

“I, uh. Thank you, Maxwell,” he says, drawn into the man’s warm expression.

“Any time,” the other says quietly. He finds himself really _looking_ at Maxwell for the first time beyond a cursory glance or a doom-driven attempt at healing; he’s gently tanned, with scattered freckles across his nose and bright, bright blue eyes that are tinged with green at the edges – the green of the Mark, and of the Breach.

_Wait_

Othain withdraws his hand hastily, bringing it to his face to mask a sudden sputtering cough. He can feel his face flush, and knows that it’s obvious with his fair skin. “Now let’s catch up to the others,” he says, cloak flaring out behind him as he whirls back to face the direction of the road and moving on before Maxwell can interrupt him again.

He hears a low, throaty amused chuckle before Maxwell moves to follow.

They find the others not too far ahead of them, having felled three wolves at a bend in the road that curves up a gentle slope between two hills and then down into the Horsemaster’s Valley. Cassandra is out of breath, sword still planted in the corpse of one of the creatures as Maxwell and Othain, alarmed, rapidly close distance to their companions.

“You were attacked by wolves? In broad daylight?” Othain says incredulously as he approaches where Solas is crouched beside one, his hand in the beast’s grey-black fur.

“Do you feel that?” The elf says as he senses Othain behind him; the witch nods.

“Ichor. These wolves were possessed,” he says, kneeling beside Solas and placing a hand at the crest of the wolf’s head. “Perhaps there is a rift nearby, and a demon claimed the pack.”

“I agree.”

“That is… alarming, but for now our concern is the Horsemaster,” Cassandra says, wiping her blade on the fur of a slain wolf and sheathing it, continuing along the road.

The valley is as idyllic as any place Othain has seen – all gently rolling grass and scattered farmland, golden stalks of wheat stirred by the occasional wind. The day is clear, the sky an even blue without a cloud in sight. Sunlight blankets everything, keeping the cold of the nearby mountains at bay.

Steep hills flank the basin on all sides, only falling where shallow streams wind their way through the landscape, blanketed in dense forest. It gives the valley an air of seclusion, of sanctuary.

In the distance, to the south, he thinks he sees a pasture for the famous horses, where a handful of them graze alongside a creek. The road winds north and west before curving towards the south and the Horsemaster’s estate.

A large and wooden affair, Dennett’s manor is the central structure in the estate. In the style of Fereldan it is angular and tiered, with lowland carvings of eagles and horses decorating the roof’s frame. There are several other structures, satellites to the manor: an impressively large stable, several smaller houses and huts for the estate’s farmers, hands and staff, and a garden with an auxiliary shed adjacent to it. Tending to it is an elderly woman, white hair well-coiffed but not impractically so, and wearing nicely-tailored but warm, durable clothing.

“Excuse me, Madame!” Maxwell is friendly as he approaches the woman. “Do you know where we might find Master Dennett? We are agents of the Inquisition, and would like to speak with him about business.”

“Just through the door, lad, my lazy lout of a husband has yet to finish his lunch.” The woman, apparently the Mistress of the estate, stands from where she was bent over a bean sprout, planting her hands on her waist and scanning the company shrewdly. “An’ before we can give any horses to the Inquisition, we need security. The fighting is out of control and, to add to that, a pack of demented wolves is attackin’ our farmers. Normally a good torch is all you need to scare ‘em off, but these ones are persistent.”

“We’ve just finished raiding the rebel mage and templar bases. Their conflict in the region is ended,” Cassandra interjects. “But we must speak with the Horsemaster.”

“Well that’s certainly a bit of good news,” she says with an appreciative nod. Then, with a gesture to the manor entrance, “Go on.”

Maxwell thanks the woman before pacing over to the door, a thick wood thing carved with illustrations of bears and more eagles – common symbols of the Fereldan south. He pushes it open and Othain follows the others inside, entering last into a broad and tall foyer flanked by two-storied wings on the North and South. Master Dennett is near the entrance already, lacing up his boots.

_Presumably he finished his lunch_ , Othain notes as Maxwell engages the man in conversation, the witch allowing it to drift over him as he doesn’t perceive this man as much of a threat to the Herald. The Horsemaster’s wife, who they learn is named Elena, was correct: Dennett won’t promise his services to the Inquisition without an exchange, assurances that the organization is genuine in their promise to restore order to Thedas. Firstly, they are to see to the wolves. Secondly and in exchange for their horses, Dennett wants the Inquisition to send workers to construct a watchtower on a nearby hilltop; the templars and mages may be quelled, but there are still bandit camps scattered throughout the rural region, and it is only prudent to increase the security of the valley.

Master Dennett is generous with the Inquisition agents though, granting them access to horses for their journey. Every member of the party aside from Othain incredibly relieved at the prospect of making the rest of the journey on horseback; the young mage could make the journey through the air in a fraction of even that small time, the sole limitation to his speed being his companions’.

Maxwell agrees to these tasks, naturally. Othain senses a pattern emerging.

“I will tend to the wolf pack,” Othain declares once they emerge from the manor. “I can find the den and eliminate them quickly on my own. The rest of you can prepare for the journey back towards the Crossroads.”

“Othain, that doesn’t make sense,” Maxwell responds quickly, frowning. “What if there’s a Rift there? You can’t seal them.”

“I do think that splitting up the tasks makes sense,” Cassandra notes, frowning thoughtfully. “Varric and Solas can accompany me to mark the location of the tower. Othain can accompany the Herald to the wolf den and deal with them.”

“I can take care of it myself,” Othain grumbles, arms folded over his chest. “But very well.”

Maxwell looks as if he’s achieved some small victory and heads towards the stables to collect his steed along with the others; Varric is unsurprisingly amused by the entire thing, _especially_ with Othain’s displeasure. He seems endlessly amused by the young human’s moods.

***

“I don’t require a horse.”

The stable hand, a squat but athletic woman with brown hair and eyes, eyes him as if he’s an idiot. “What do you mean? It’s yours, ser.”

“I do not need one,” he says again, reluctant to explain to this woman the reasoning why. Luckily, before she can protest again, Maxwell interjects.

“Othain here doesn’t know how to ride,” he says, “So he’ll be joining me. Thank you, though.”

Understanding passes across the woman’s expression – well, _fake_ understanding, given that Maxwell had just lied to her – and she gives the man a sympathetic look. “It’s surprisin’ how many mage types don’ know how to ride a horse proper,” she responds. “I think it’s the fancy dresses-”

“ _Robes_ ,” Othain protests quietly, but is ignored as the woman continues to chat inanely at the Herald who, to his credit, takes it in stride. The man seems to take everything in stride, easily fitting in with anyone.

Being a nobleman, Maxwell takes naturally to horseback. Many of the _noble_ pursuits of the Free Marches and Ferelden are on horseback: hunting, racing, and war are chief among them. Othain is unsurprised to see the man seems at home on the horse that Dennett has chosen for him, a chestnut Fereldan Forder and one of the few horses in the Horsemaster’s possession that is fittingly sized for the giant of a man.

Before Othain knows it, his companions are all saddled up; they and the stable hand are looking at him expectantly. “What is it?” he asks, and Maxwell chuckles before motioning for him to climb up _onto the horse._

_He’s already told his lie to the Horsemaster’s hand. Dammit. I don’t exactly feel comfortable shifting in the middle of the stables._

“Very well,” he says and approaches the horse; the beast shies away from him. In fact, all the horses seem skittish around him, making deep, uncomfortable sounds in his presence and shifting agitatedly. “It doesn’t want me to,” he says as the horse backs up again.

“You’ve gotta at least _pretend_ you like it, kid,” Varric doesn’t enjoy being on horseback either; evidently it’s common to dwarves, who prefer to be rooted to the ground. The rogue is seated on Solas’ horse, much smaller than Maxwell’s and Cassandra’s, sitting behind the elf with a grim expression.

“ _Hmph._ ” He unfolds his arms and approaches the horse again, this time getting closer to the horse’s side. Maxwell reaches down with one arm as Othain places one foot uncertainly in the stirrup.

“Take my hand, push up and swing your leg over the back in one motion,” he says quietly. “Sit behind me, and hold onto my belt for balance.” Othain nods and does as he’s told, biting back a startled noise as the Herald’s grip tightens and lifts, practically launching him from the ground. He lands in the saddle with a low grunt, disoriented briefly. “You good?” the Herald asks after a second.

“I am fine. Let us be on our way,” he says, feeling dwarfed by the broad armored back in front of him and the huge beast he’s sat on. He pulls the cloak up and off of the horse, thinking that perhaps it might tangle in its legs and, distracted while doing so he misses the Herald’s short whistle and heels clipping the horse’s side. He almost falls over backward as it lurches suddenly forward, grasping instinctively at Maxwell’s waist to keep from taking a tumble off of the horse’s rear.

Maxwell laughs, open amusement as he looks over his shoulder to see the smaller mage clinging to a loop in his armor’s belt.

“Right, hold on,” he calls back to Othain. Cassandra’s and Solas’ horses draw level with them on either side, the elf eyeing Othain in quiet amusement.

“Let us conclude this business swiftly and be on our way,” Cassandra says. “We shall meet at the Crossroads. Good luck, Herald. Othain.” She nods slightly to the both of them before pulling on the reins and giving a sharp command to her steed, the horse taking off immediately and leaving the smaller one to trail behind it.

Maxwell watches their companions make their way back in the direction they came from before looking to the North, the direction in which Dennett told them to look. “We should get going,” he says back over his shoulder. “You ready?”

Othain nods. “Let us get this over with. You know, I do not actually _need_ to ride on horseback. I could fly.”

Maxwell huffs a laugh, nudging the horse to go on at a gentle trot before encouraging it to pick up speed a little. “You could, but there’s no need. We know where to look for the wolves. Spare your energy, Othain. Besides, it’s more fun this way!”

“What do you mean fun – _Maxw-”_

With an enthusiastic whooping and a flair of their mount’s reins, the horse is off with alarming abruptness at a gallop, and Othain strains to maintain his hold on the Herald’s belt for a moment before leaning in and circling his arms about the man’s waist – propriety forgotten in his struggle to maintain his position on the horse’s back. He protests again, but his voice is lost in the wind of their movement, the thundering of hooves on beaten earth, and the Herald’s own energetic hollering.

The landscape passes by in a twenty minute ride, both Maxwell and their mount seeming to revel in the quick pace. Othain isn’t used to the sensation of wind rushing about him in his human form, but after a few minutes he does lean back from where his face had been tucked against the Herald’s back. He watches as the softly undulating landscape of the valley passes them by, golden and green in the light of the sun that descends gradually towards the hills flanking them.

In the North is another ravine, carved by a tributary to the river they passed earlier in the day and, according to the Horse Master, a veritable labyrinth of hills, cave systems and rocky underpasses. It’s the perfect lair for a pack of wolves, shaded and protected.

“There’s a Rift up ahead. We should dismount here and approach it on foot,” Othain nudges Maxwell’s side, prompting him to slow their mount and listen to him. The warrior nods, directing the horse to a stand of trees that flank the entrance into the canyon before dismounting. He offers a hand to Othain; the shorter man, struggling to dismount from the huge beast, frowns but takes it.

Still he doesn’t dismount so much as he hops off the stirrup, landing with a soft thud next to the Herald who is chuckling at his difficulties. They leave the horse to graze and make their way into the entrance of the gorge. The river here emerges from an underground source beneath a cliff, presumably connecting to the river that ran through the ravine by the former Templars’ encampment. This tributary is surrounded on all sides by high cliffs, except where the valley slope curves gently between two of them and connects to the river bank. Luckily this part of the river runs through a collection of loose stone, a fjord making it passable here.

There is indeed a Rift there; it hangs suspended in the air above the river’s source like a green jewel. It catches what few rays of sunlight make their way beyond the cliffs flanking it and refract them, casting an eerie emerald sheen upon the water below it.

Even if the Rift is dormant at the moment, they both know by now that it will react to the Mark as they draw near. These phenomena are like that: sleepy enigmatic things much of the time, only waking occasionally to spit out a handful of demons and then sliding closed again. They unfailingly wake in the presence of the Mark, growing agitated as those spirits on the other side of the Veil flock towards its magic like moths to a flame.

Before they even draw near to it, Othain weaves a barrier around them both, his magic sliding softly over their forms with the barest of sighs and the crisp scent of lyrium. The Rift snaps open moments later, its oppressive and now too-familiar aura passing over him and turning his stomach, pools of ichor falling from the aperture into the Fade and seething in the waters of the river. Othain hurriedly reaches out with his magic, a pulse of black energy reaching out and latching onto one of the bubbling masses of demonic essence before it can finish forming, twisting the magic of the rapidly forming demon and dismantling it quickly.

Three demons now emerge from the waters: two of them are Terrors, the lanky green collections of loose stone and roots that shriek with tortured voices and attack with wicked talons. These are familiar by now, common among the demons that fall from Rifts. The third is one that he has yet to encounter at a Rift, and yet he knows it is a demon of Despair, a black-cloaked creature hovering over the water and surrounded in an icy aura that chills the air of the ravine; frost encroaches on the banks of the rivers and on the few rocks that extend beyond the river’s surface. Othain feels a sense of dread over him like a patch of frost.

Othain’s entire being shudders at the sight of it, and he instantly prioritizes it as the greatest threat – he knows by now that Maxwell can handle himself against these lesser Terrors, but Despair is much more powerful, wielding an aura of deadly glacial magic. Black fog unfurls from his cloak and rushes the demon, coiling around it and pulling at it, attempting to tether it in place so that he can dispatch it quickly, but his magic slides and coils impotently against it.

_Damn it. It is immune to curses._

_It will be weak to flame magic, but my experience with offensive fire charms is limited._

_Still. I must try._

“Herald, stand back!” Othain calls as he extends his hands to his front, flame pooling in the air there – it swirls and folds in on itself, the heat a welcome defense against the sudden chill of the ravine, and when the Despair recognizes the fire it unleashes a blood-curdling howl from the depths of its hooded form. Its face is obscured in the inky black shadows of its cloak.

His only warning is the atmospheric _snap_ of magic from the demon before a jet of frigid air flecked with shards of ice barrels towards him – in reflex he releases the flame that was building between his hands and it erupts towards the Despair, meeting its own magic in a hiss of steam in the space between them.

To his left, he hears steel rending the rotted wooden flesh of a Terror and the release of magic as the demon, lacking the power to maintain its form under such stress, dematerializes and is drawn back into the Rift. Ahead of him, the steam clears and reveals that the Despair has moved – he casts around wildly to see the cloaked being creeping around towards Maxwell’s flank. The warrior, locked in combat with the second Terror, is oblivious to its advance.

Othain shifts rapidly, exploding into a ball of purple smoke that passes Maxwell and the Terror and reforms on his other side just in time to feel the telltale snap of glacial power – without the time to think or even to aim he lashes out with wild flame magic on instinct, flooding the air ahead of him with fire. It scorches the stone and dirt and grass, fills the air with steam where it meets the river. Audible even among all this noise is the scream of the Despair where the fire meets its frail, cloaked form. Othain reaches out for the source of the rending shriek with force magic, wrapping around it and holding it in place while the steam clears.

Despairs are powerful but frail, suited in this way to the ice magic they wield. With the force of his psychic prison the creature folds in on its center and then dissolves in a pool of ichor and the ghost of its screams. Behind him, Maxwell fells the second Terror, sealing the Rift after it with a gesture that has become second-nature to him.

“That’s that…” Maxwell sighs as he catches his breath. “Do you think the wolves will be back to normal now?”

Othain shakes his head. “No, the demon that has taken control of the pack will not be among those we just dispatched. It is likely in their den.”

A nod; Maxwell wipes the flat of his blade on the grass of the riverbank. Their decision to continue is unvoiced but mutual, Othain crossing the fjord in a plume of black smoke and waiting patiently for Maxwell to follow, ignoring the man’s good-natured jests about how he ought to ‘magic’ _him_ across too.

Just as the redheaded man places his foot on the opposite bank, the forest erupts in howls – the wolves are not far, their pack clearly reeling at the loss of the demon’s connection to the Fade.

_This is evidence enough that a demon is the cause of this, and that this was the Rift it came through. Hopefully this hasn’t rendered the wolves too aggressive._

The howls are over in moments, leaving the ravine eerie and echoing with the sound.

“Herald,” Othain says as they move further downstream, towards the opposite end of the ravine where they can see a curved uphill slope leading towards the sounds they had just heard. “Let me deal with the wolves, my way. We don’t have to kill them all.”

At this, the warrior frowns. “We were asked to kill them, Othain.”

“No, we were asked to _deal with them._ If they aren’t possessed, they will go back to the way they were – no more than an occasional nuisance. Everything in woods such as these is connected – and there is no reason to kill off the entire pack,” Othain’s voice is insistent, and Maxwell is surprised at how urgent he sounds.

“I… alright,” he sighs. It doesn’t ultimately matter to him how they deal with the wolves. And the small relieved smile that forms in Othain’s expression doesn’t hurt. The younger man so rarely smiles that when Maxwell causes that slight grin to appear, he feels oddly accomplished.

“Thank you, Herald,” the raven-haired man says – and as he does they see a handful of wolves approaching. A blossoming of magic unfolds from Othain’s hands, tendrils of purple smoke that pass through the beasts and root them to the ground, four in total. The young witch then approaches them, still warily even if the wolves’ muscles will not obey them. His hex is powerful and rooted into the very fibres of their being, and even a seasoned enchanter would struggle to combat it.

Othain kneels in front of the nearest of the creatures – it’s easily as large as he is, bristling with grey-ish black fur flecked with whites and browns, clumps of it sticking out on its flanks where it is shedding its coat. A hand falls on the creature’s forehead, and piercing yellowed eyes follow the motion. Its eyes are bloodshot, its body straining under the magic of the demon that has seized its mind.

“ _Saor bhon phr_ _ìosan agad,”_ the spell flows from his lips in a whisper that somehow fills the air of the ravine, echoing off of the steep walls of the cliffs surrounding them. The air feels charged with the release of magic, and the red retreats slowly from the wolf’s eyes.

The hedge witch moves quietly between the four wolves, repeating the spell for each of them and feeling his magic sink into their bones, gently releasing the coiling and twisting demonic ichor it encounters there.

His charm also undoes his own hex – the creatures blink wearily, disoriented, before retreating with a start and slinking away into the shadowed recesses of this labyrinthian system of canyons.

“Othain, that was…” Maxwell draws next to the mage from his flank, gesturing after the vanished wolves. “Incredible. You never cease to surprise me.”

Startling slightly, Othain draws his cloak about himself and turns away – he can feel a vaguely flustered heat spreading across his cheeks at the praise. “It’s something the Hadria taught me. It comes in very handy in the Brecilian Forest, where errant spirits are known to possess all manner of simple beasts, even trees.”

“Does that work on humans? Could that reverse abomination?” Maxwell asks intently. “Think of the-”

“It doesn’t work on humans,” Othain interrupts him. “At least, not on abominations. This is something different – when a mage becomes an abomination, they are either persuaded or coerced into entering a contract with a demon, one that the demon exploits to take control of their body and mind. They are no longer themselves. That and a mage’s connection to the Fade, separate an abomination from this form of possession,” he explains. “This is purely physical control. The wolves still owned their minds, I just released their bodies.”

Maxwell’s expression is contemplative, absorbing the information and processing it before responding. “I see. That… is unfortunate.”

His companion only nods, black curls bouncing once, and then turns towards their path. Across from them is what appears to be a cave, a passage to another section of the extensive canyons, obscured largely by hanging vines and other encroaching greenery.

As they pass into its shadows, Othain can feel the veins of magic coursing through the air around them.

_There is no doubting it – this is the lair of the demon. It must have been here for a while – the very stone is laced with its vitriol. I wonder how powerful the creature is?_

“Be very wary, Herald,” Othain says quietly, staying very near to the warrior. Maxwell’s sword is at the ready, held aloft in front of them and glinting slightly in the dusk of the stone passage. It’s very short, and it ends very differently from its entrance. Instead of a simple hole in the side of a cliff, the passage broadens both in height and width, arching above them into a veritable cavern before its ceiling opens up in a jagged cut that reveals the dimming light of the Ferelden sky. Ahead of them is a gently lit expanse of grass, not quite a cave and not quite a meadow. Wolves fill the space, lounging on mossy rocks and padding softly across the grassy cave floor.

_It’s beautiful_. Othain can’t help but think it. Living his life in the forest, he’s drawn naturally to those secluded, natural spaces, and everything about this place draws his eye and his heart and feels like home. With its high arched stone walls, its plush carpeting of grass and moss, the occasional flowering vines twisting around a stone outcropping like living lace, it almost feels like the chapel to a forgotten god.

And yet, they have a job to do.

Magic releases from his palms in a quiet sigh, the familiar purple smoke spreading across the floor of the cave and ensnaring the wolves. It curls around their paws and sinks into their fur before the pack is even fully aware of what is happening; by the time they are, most of the wolves are paralyzed and the hex fills the cavern floor.

“That’s the wolves taken care of,” Othain says quietly. “Let us find this demon and take care of it. That should release all of the beasts at once. With luck, the demon isn’t resistant to hexes and is paralyzed as well.”

Maxwell nods, stepping into the cave once the purple fog dissipates.

“It appears I have guests,” the voice that pierces the quiet is deep and many-layered, husky and deeply alluring. “You could have simply announced yourselves, instead of cursing my pets.”

“Who goes there?” Maxwell responds, sword still brandished. “Show yourself!”

A figure emerges from the shadows of the cave – or perhaps it was always there, and they failed to notice. Perhaps its presence was disguised by enchantment. It’s something like a man and yet it is clearly something else entirely, its skin a dusted lilac in color and its eyes deep crimson. Its form is tall, a thick neck set on broad shoulders and rippling muscle. Pinkish-purple smoke surrounds the crown of its head, spiral horns set into its temples. The figure is mostly nude, with the exception of ornate jewels hanging from its neck and golden cuffs on its wrists, laurels of gold leaf decorating its naked body in twists and folds.

The figure floats just barely off of the soft grass of the clearing, the tips of its toes only grazing the green blades. It watches the two of them with unrestrained fascination and attention, piercing crimson eyes locking with Othain’s black gaze.

“ _Desire_ ,” Othain practically hisses before placing himself between he demon and Maxwell. “I didn’t expect such a creature to be commanding a pack of beasts.”

“If it isn’t the witch’s little Dreamer,” Desire says, gaze never straying from Othain. “I always knew the old crone couldn’t keep you to herself forever… Eventually I would have a taste.” As he says so he drifts nearer to the two of them.

Othain’s eyes flash with anger, and an orb of black magic pools in his palm. “Keep your distance, demon,” he hisses. “The Herald and I are here to banish you from this place.”

“This man is … a desire demon?” Maxwell asks, stepping forward from behind Othain.

“Yes, he is. Don’t listen to anything he says, Herald, Desire is among the most dangerous of demons,” the younger man says before the demon can respond. “Let us kill it and be done here.”

“ _Ah,_ but that’s no _fun,_ ” Desire’s gaze now lands on Maxwell. “He’s just a little… curious… at seeing his desires laid out for him so plainly. Why don’t I show you more… Herald?”

The silence mounts in deafening crescendo as Maxwell thinks and Othain’s heart thunders anxiously in his chest.

_What if Maxwell heeds the demon? What if he’s caught in its magic? What can I do?_

“Don’t listen to it, Maxwell,” he pleads, eyes still trained on the demon. _Please._

The magic curled in his palm buzzes with barely-restrained energy, waiting to be unleashed on the demon, and yet Othain knows that combatting Desire can be tricky – if you attack the demon while it has its claws latched onto someone, it can damage their mind.

_I don’t like it at all, but Maxwell must resist on his own before I can attack._

The silence is deafening, and with each passing moment the demon appears more smug – in its mind, Maxwell’s hesitation is assurance that he will give in to temptation. Eventually, the warrior speaks.

“I… know my own desires, beast,” Maxwell says slowly and levels his blade towards the demon.

“Do you, now?” Desire all but purrs, approaching Maxwell slowly with a coy grin. “Mortals can be so… determined. You think that your actions, your honor, will win the object of your affections… but I can give it to you now.”

Desire is in the Herald’s space now, a hand placed gently on the warrior’s arm, over his bicep that is still tense at holding the blade aloft. Othain, for his own part, is straining against the impulse to attack the beast, protective instincts warring with the knowledge that he can hurt Maxwell by interfering. 

_Can he truly resist? Desire is a subtle, cunning beast for even experienced mages to resist. Many think of demons only in terms of feral, wild magic, all destruction and no thought. They are fools who are unfailingly caught off guard by the more cunning demons of Desire and Sloth. Maxwell very likely has no experience with such enchantments._

In spite of himself, Othain feels power pooling in the palms of his hands, and knows in his heart that should this go too far he will end the beast – regardless of the risk to the Herald, it pales in comparison to the risks of a demon gaining control of the man and his marked hand.

“It would be so easy to give in…” The creature leans in, his hand trailing up Maxwell’s arm to cup the side of his face. Its voice is practically a whisper; Othain can only imagine the alluring pull of its charm on Maxwell’s willpower.

Maxwell swallows, hard. “I…” his sword begins to drop, only a couple inches.

“Maxwell, _please,_ don’t give in,” Othain says, taking an unconscious step forward. “You must-”

“This one must only listen to his own desires,” the creature intervenes, shooting Othain an indulgent and condescending glance.

“I said, _demon,_ ” Maxwell says again, shoving off from Desire and lifting his sword again, “that I know my own heart. A pale imitation such as you could never earn it.”

Desire’s eyes narrow, and he backs away slowly – a certain sign that his enchantment is broken.

Othain feels the worry begin to unknot. Without further prompting or allowing the demon to react, he unleashes the concentrated power from his palm towards their foe. “Begone, demon!” he cries; Desire flinches backward, attempting to dodge the magic being launched at it but to no avail. It screams as the black energy eats at its form, and then again, higher and fiercer as Maxwell’s blade is plunged into its chest.

Maxwell twists the blade firmly before drawing it back out of the creature’s chest, black magic clinging to its skin and eating away at it slowly – Desire screams, its features shifting now wildly and without control, pieces of it already dissolving into a mass of ichor at their feet.

It only takes a few moments and yet watching the wretch burn feels like an eternity.

“Are you alright, Herald – I mean, Maxwell,” Othain says, approaching the man cautiously. Those who are successfully broken from Desire’s enchantments tend to be somewhat… _volatile_ in the aftermath.

The redheaded warrior blinks slowly before looking over at Othain as if startled. He blinks again before pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m alright. But I feel a headache coming on,” he says quietly. “I think we should go meet the others.”

The younger man nods. “I am sorry you had to deal with such a creature,” he says and, as he makes to leave, he feels a hand grip his wrist. He turns to find Maxwell suddenly very close, his eyes hazy and unfocused and a deep flush spread across his cheek and down his neck.

“Othain, thank you,” his voice is husky, and he leans in. “If that demon had claimed me… who knows what might have happened?”

Maxwell is _very_ close, his body practically pressed against the slighter man’s, his hand moved from Othain’s wrist and up to his shoulder, cupping it gently as he leans it. The air between them is warm, too warm, and Othain feels heat pooling in his gut; he swallows hard, having difficulty focusing with Maxwell’s blue eyes piercing his own.

“I, uh, did nothing… you resisted the demon on your own, Herald,” he says quietly, feeling dwarfed by the man in front of him.

“Is it still _Herald_? I think we should be more… familiar, Othain,” Maxwell says, and presses closer, leaning in so that the scent of musk and steel clouds the witch’s senses.

“Um. Maxwell, what…?” his response is little more than a ghost of breath from between parted lips – Maxwell’s arms are circling his waist now, pulling their bodies almost flush to each other, and he can feel the barest of the larger man’s breath across his cheeks.

“You worry too much,” Maxwell huffs a breathy laugh, eyes never leaving Othain’s. “Just… _give in._ ”

_Give in. Just. Give in._

_It would be so easy, just a simple kiss._

_So, so easy. Simple. It’s what you want, right?_

_No… this is wrong, right?_

Othain blinks, shaking his head as if dazed, and tries to step back and out of Maxwell’s arms – the warrior’s hold on him tightens.

“Come on, Othain,” Maxwell sounds more urgent now. “I _want_ you…”

_That’s. Not very like Maxwell._

No, the Herald has always been more than respectful of Othain’s boundaries – more so than anyone else, Maxwell tries to give the young mage the space he desires when he desires it, engaging him only on terms with which he is comfortable.

“I… no, this isn’t. You _aren’t Maxwell,_ ” he says, and with the smallest release of magic he frees himself from the not-Maxwell’s grasp. Already he can feel his head clearing, the heat and the haze of their proximity fading. “ _Desire._ I should have known that was too simple.”

Maxwell only grins vindictively, the sadistic expression so foreign on those familiar features. “Little Dreamer… you were so close. This could have been so easy…” His voice is deeper now, taking on that bizarre layered affect of Desire’s, his form twisting and purpling into the otherworldly, lilac muscled figure from before.

Desire speaks again, still sounding so _smug._ “But you can still have what you desire. I can – _agh – no-!”_

Without warning, a blade emerges from Desire’s chest, sending a spray of black blood through the air between them and with a chaotic release of mana, the illusion is broke. Maxwell stands behind the demon, sweat glistening across his brow as he drives the blade further in, then braces a boot against the demon’s back and kicking it off of the sword.

Now, and truly, the demon dies. It is much less theatric than in its illusion, there is no wild scream or dramatic distortion of Desire’s form; instead it dissolves with a sigh like the release of magic, and its enchantment of the area is slowly lifted. Othain, still stunned, watches unmoving. Maxwell wipes the flat of his blade on the damp grass of the clearing, watching him cautiously.

“Othain…” he begins, gently. “Are you-”

“How much of that did you hear?” All at once the young mage is mortified, and he takes a hurried step back. He isn’t even paying attention to the wolves, all but fled from the clearing now that the demon’s hold on them is gone.

“… I won’t lie, Othain, I heard all of it. I wasn’t sure whether I should intervene, I didn’t know if it was safe, but – “ he sighs, rubbing at his neck awkwardly, “well, do you want to talk?”

“No, I do not,” Othain’s voice is barely a whisper and yet, in the high stone walls of the ravine, it could be a shout. “Forget what you heard.”

“Othai-”

“I said forget it, Herald,” the witch says, his lips set into a determined line. Leaving no opportunity for discussion he turns to leave the darkened little meadow – Desire’s Charm lifted, it is now so much more mundane, merely a shady patch of stone and dirt exposed to the sky above. A strange sense of melancholy settles over the both of them as they take in their surroundings. It’s gotten much darker than expected, dusk settling over the countryside like a hazy blanket, softening everything in blended blues, and purples, and greys.

Maxwell is silent, at that. In fact, neither of them speaks until they make their way back to the Forder who has dutifully remained under the stand of trees where Maxwell left it. Even then, Maxwell speaks in the bare, cautious minimum and the raven-haired witch carefully averts his attention from the other man. Othain doesn’t mount the horse this time – he shifts into a raven and follows from the sky.

***

The hills and mountains surrounding Haven – the sleepy village nestled into the valley of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, high in the Frostbacks – are frozen even on a good day, bright sunlight refracting off of every stray bit of ice in blinding white. Pines and birch dust the hills that flank the eternally frozen pond just beyond the village’s front gates. Beyond that, the white of the valley is uninterrupted until the steep incline of the mountains resumes. The air here is cold and clear, and mostly still. The busy sounds of Haven are distant, the ringing of hammer on steel, the constant and inane chatter of the Chantry folk, the bustling movements and sounds of recruits training.

Far from it all is a small sanctuary of his creation, removed from the petty intrigues of the Sisters, the agents and those few mages and ex-templars that survived the Conclave. All of them scrambling for influence in a rapidly growing Inquisition.

It helps that it’s removed from Maxwell, as well. In the two days since they returned from the Hinterlands, the Herald’s advisors have been busily arranging a trip to Val Royeaux, the capital of Orlais, so that Cassandra and the Herald can appeal to the Chantry. It’s left the warrior with little to do except to train, and to find small errands and distractions to fill the gaps in his time.

Othain prefers to remain on his own, for now. He can’t even think on the confrontation with the Desire demon, the deep embarrassment still fresh.

_Perish it all,_ he thinks with a sour note, and renews his attention to the book cradled in his lap. This one is borrowed from Leliana, something that was given to her by an old acquaintance. She didn’t elaborate on who it was, but this study is far more in-depth, far more insightful and _useful_ , than anything housed in the Haven Chantry’s library. Othain can’t help but wonder who had written it, and why they had given it to Leliana, a non-mage.

His sanctuary is nestled into a stand of pine trees, a bit of enchantment causing their trunks and roots to bend and fuse into a wooden dome large enough only to house himself, a handful of books and a small, charmed flame. The outside is warded and charmed, a simple but useful illusion that causes passers-by to overlook the little hovel.

It isn’t strictly necessary, as far removed from Haven as he is, but Hadria taught him nothing, if not to be wary at all times.

_A lot of good it did me against Desire,_ the bitter thought rises from the back of his mind, tasting of bile. He quashes it down uncomfortably. He’s only spoken on the matter with Solas, and that briefly – enough for the elf to understand what happened without Othain having to verbalize it entirely, feeling as if laying out the details makes it too real, an itchy blanket that settles on his skin and makes it crawl uneasily.

_Not only did Maxwell hear… that… he heard that I’m a Dreamer._ It’s that thought that makes his heart beat most uncomfortably in his chest. It feels as if he’s waiting for the fallout – for Maxwell to tell the others that he’s a Dreamer, at incredible risk of Abomination, and for Cassandra to promptly strike him down.

The Seeker would be all too willing to have a justification for her mistrust of the _hedge witch._

“ _Mir falon._ ” _My friend._ Solas’ voice from just beyond the enchanted little hole, the simple wards Othain erected representing no barrier to the enigmatic elvhen mage. Although, Solas is perhaps the only person whose presence Othain welcomes as of late. “You have been gone for several hours now. Varric and the Herald are worried.”

Othain sighs and replaces the book on the mat that he brought in to keep his books from the dirt, then ducks out of the small wood sanctuary and out into the biting cold of the valley.

“I doubt that they are worried over-much,” Othain says simply, brushing the dirt and stray bark from his clothes, a black linen tunic buttoned up to the neck and cotton trousers, also black. Obtained for him by Josephine, and convenient when in his sanctuary that is rather small for his voluminous cloak and robes.

“Then you misunderstand our allies,” Solas’ expression is firm, but not unkind. “I believe the two of them are on the verge of organizing a search party as we speak. You have become rather infamous for disappearing for hours at a time.”

Solas receives only a huff and a grunt in response.

“You cannot avoid the Herald forever, Othain,” he continues. “In fact, you are set to join us on our trip to Val Royeaux; we leave at dawn tomorrow.”

“What?” Othain fixes an incredulous stare at his friend as they fall into step alongside each other, crossing the valley towards Haven. The frozen white expanse is only broken occasionally by the lumbering form of Druffalo, who graze on the scattered arctic grasses where the snow is thin. “I cannot go to Val Royeaux. I will be so out of place among such _civilized_ people as to be a liability,” he scoffs. “There is no way Josephine condones this.”

“Oh, she does. Don’t worry about fitting in; you won’t be speaking with any aristocrats,” Solas is almost amused. “You, Varric and I are only there to watch the Herald’s back. He and Cassandra will be meeting with the Chantry.”

“There’s no reason that I should accompany you. I should stay here-”

“I’ve never known you to be so childish, Othain,” Solas chastises him, voice gentle yet still stern. “Impatient, perhaps, but never childish. I think you are over-reacting. The Herald doesn’t think any less of you for what he heard in your confrontation with Desire.”

“ _Hmph._ I very much doubt that.”

“Then you shall see for yourself, on our journey to Val Royeaux.”

Othain groans. “Perhaps I ought to return to Hadria. I think that will be preferable to a visit to Val Royeaux.” Solas only laughs, and the human scowls at him from over his crossed arms.

They cross the valley in companionable silence after that, making their way through the wood that isn’t quite dense enough to be a forest, down a slope onto the frozen water and across it towards the front gate.

Where Maxwell and Varric are waiting, rather unamused.

“Where’ve you been?” The warrior asks, thick arms folded over his chest. He’s in his civilian clothes, a sky-blue linen tunic and deep brown deerskin breeches, belted with a sash of deep cobalt samite. His expression borders on severe, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a line.

“I was studying,” Othain’s response is simple, his gaze averted from the taller man. Varric looks between them and sighs.

“ _Shit_ , Feathers. There’s better places to read than the middle of an ice field,” the dwarf says. “So Leliana says she wants you accompanying us to Val Royeaux! You ready to see the capital of Orlais?”

“No,” Othain frowns. “I don’t even see why-” a nudge from Solas cuts him short. “If nothing else, it will be a _fascinating_ experience.” He shoots an impish glance to Solas as he amends his statement, the other mage clearly amused.

“Well, I’m glad you’re coming,” Maxwell says, unfolding his arms and turning to the gates into the village.

“Yeah, and we’re gonna be playing a few hands of Wicked Grace later at the Rest. Join us if you want,” Varric nudges him. “Drinks are on me, Feathers.”

Othain can’t help but smile with faint amusement. “I am going to have to decline, Varric. Perhaps another time. I, uh,” he looks between them and Solas for a moment. “I have some affairs to tend to. Please excuse me,” and with that he ducks past Varric and into the village, making his way towards the Apothecary’s hut.

“I told you he wouldn’t come,” Varric says to Maxwell. “Wonder if the kid’s ever even had a drink before?”

“Or played cards,” Maxwell’s expression is faintly put off. “We could have taught him.”

“Othain needs some time to sort through what happened with Desire,” Solas says to the two of them. “Perhaps you should allow him to process these things in peace?”

“…nah,” Varric says with a shrug. “Kid needs friends to lean on. Anyway. What says you and I go get a head start on those drinks, Sparkles?”

Maxwell groans but nods, pinching the bridge of his nose in feigned exasperation. “You really need to work on that nickname.”

***

Even in his explorations of the Fade, Othain has never seen anything so grand, so ostentatious, as Val Royeaux.

It is the absolute edifice to all that Orlais represents – a visage of splendid marble and gold, wrought irons and silver, waterfalls and imported tropical gardens. The buildings are all tall spires of white marble and painted blue stone trimmed in gold. Everything seems to be perfectly in order, perfectly pristine. It takes Othain’s breath away – and yet as Solas tells it, this is all merely a façade that hides the true nature of the city. The poverty, the violence, the religious fervor and rigor. One can see traces of it in the stalls that flank the wide open-air markets, the urchins that hide in the shadows as the city guard pass or who cling to the skirts of their mothers who bargain desperately with merchants. It can be seen in the many wrought-iron gates that divide the city and contain its visitors to the most splendid of its avenues, hiding the desperation the darker things that go on in its alleys and backroads. It can be seen in the heavy presence of the guard whose armor and blades, polished to a mirror smoothness, flash relentlessly in the noon sun.

The city is all duality – extreme riches hiding extreme poverty, the picture of gentility that masks the darker dealings of the city’s denizens, the center of Southern Thedas’ religion housed alongside the center of Orlesian politics.

And indeed, religious iconography clings to every surface, depictions of Andraste and her betrayers line the broad stone boulevards. The Chantry Sunburst adorning every statue, every archway, every watercourse. Chanters move through the city in throngs, all of the remaining clerics clustered here as they vie for influence in the void left by the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Othain wants to see only the beauty, the unrelenting elegance of Val Royeaux, but he cannot. Everything that he has been told, everything he now knows about this place, makes his skin crawl and sets his instincts on high alert.

According to Leliana and Josephine, he is to be their trump card in the event of violence. No one can possibly know him here – and so he agreed to be dressed in the fashion of Orlais, clean and pressed white cotton and silk tunic trimmed in shining black with ivory buttons worn over black and silver trousers that are tucked into fine leather boots. He’s made some attempt to tame his wild black locks, and a silver mask bearing the inquisition crest is set uncomfortably on the bridge of his nose, held in place only by a slender tie fasted in the back.

The others are similarly trussed up, Cassandra and Maxwell in glittering silver dress armor that also bears the insignia of the Inquisition. The latter looks supremely regal in his, silver scaled armor belted with a wide, crimson velvet sash. In the gaps of his armor, one can see the deep red of the rest of his attire; it all works very well with his sun-tanned complexion, his red hair and his fair blue eyes. Despite his embarrassment following the confrontation with Desire, Othain can’t help but steal occasional glances at the Herald.

Solas is in robes, as usual, but without the pelts and hides that he sometimes wears. Varric is dressed as he always is – red tunic fastened only to his lower chest.

As they make their way towards the city center, they hear more than one gentle lady cry out in alarm or distress upon recognizing the emblem of the Inquisition.

_Who knows that these Orlesians think of us, here in the heart of the Chantry’s influence. We are, after all, declared heretics. Harboring the dangerous, false Herald of Andraste who, for all they know, is responsible for killing the Divine._

Othain could laugh. Who among the Inquisition honestly thought this was a good idea? That this was safe?

A scout meets them at the Avenue of Her Reflective Thought, a passage leading into the heart of the city and flanked by various statuaries of Maferath the Betrayer; gilded plaques reiterate his guilt, his atonement. It’s all a bit heavy-handed for the witch’s liking. The scout, a young Fereldan woman, greets the Herald and the Seeker, informing them anxiously that the Templars have been called to the capital, that they have come to _protect_ the people from the Inquisition.

An uncomfortable knot tightens in Othain’s throat. _Templars._ A lot of them, by the sound of it.

Twisting, staticky nothingness, coiling around his limbs and smothering him, cutting him off from everything he knows, everything he _feels_ , and –

A sympathetic look from Maxwell, clear and understanding blue eyes, a hand that twitches towards his for just a moment before it’s retracted. He almost wishes he’d taken it.

Cassandra pushes forward, undeterred, alongside Maxwell. Their other three companions trail behind them, trying their best to look at ease while remaining vigilant for potential threats. Just how hostile _are_ these Templars? Are they at all like the wild, renegade sect that they fought in the Hinterlands?

If so, then this meeting does not bode well for them.

They arrive in a broad circular pavilion, part-market, part-forum. Its center is dominated by a tall spire in blue stone, capped in marble and gold – on all sides the spire is flanked by golden lion statuaries. Opposite the spire from them is quite a crowd, surrounding on all sides an impromptu wooden stage; the intended place for the three Chanters there to enact their drama. Cassandra notes to them, quietly, that the one in the center is Mother Hevara – one of those Chantry Mothers who has come to make a bid for notoriety in the wake of the Divine’s death, and the deaths of so many of the Grand Clerics alongside her.

Standing on the periphery of the platform is a Templar who looks rather uncomfortable with the crowd surrounding him, who watches their approach warily. He’s dark-skinned, with hair that is cropped on top and shaved along the sides of his skull, tall and broad enough to wear the imposing Templar armor with ease.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” Hevara quiets the crowd with the practiced lines of her speech: “Together we mourn our Divine, her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by _treachery_!” She gestures towards their group – towards Maxwell – and her eyes are condemning steel. Her Orlesian accent is thick, the Common Tongue awkward on her own. The pointing hand lowers back to her side, and she takes a step back. “You wonder what will become of her murderer; well, wonder no more. Behold, the so-called _Herald of Andraste_ , claiming to rise where our Beloved fell!”

The crowd’s gasps are scandalized, almost as practiced in their shock as Hevara is in her condemnation.

“We say this is a false prophet!” She concludes her speech, the air now hanging thick with tension as she awaits a response from the Inquisition. From Maxwell.

“Val Royeaux, good people of the Chantry!” Maxwell begins, “I am not your enemy. The Inquisition wants only the same as you – to seal the Breach in the sky, and to find Divine Justinia’s true murderer!”

Othain circles around Maxwell’s back, flanking him and ensuring that nobody can stand too near to him. He doesn’t ready his magic yet – with Templars here, he doesn’t want to tip them off that he is a mage – but he remains at the ready.

“We must unite to close the Breach and restore order,” Maxwell adds.

“It’s true! We seek only to end this before it is too late!” Cassandra adds, her eyes and her tone are pleading. She is devout – being at odds with the Chantry does not sit well with her.

The gasps from the crowd are fewer now – this is not the response they expected, based on the wild accusations of the Chantry. They expected anger and bloodshed, not an appeal to unity.

“It is already too late!” Hevara all but spits, trembling in her anger and spite, hand outstretched to the side of the platform where a small formation of Templars approaches. Othain doesn’t see them well, not until they step up onto the stage, but he can _feel_ them, the grasping, reaching nothingness inside them. One of them feels different from the rest, darker in a way that he’s not certain he can place.

_Now_ the crowd is abuzz with excitement and noise – here is the drama they were promised.

Yet no one is prepared when one of the templar lieutenants strikes Mother Hevara, a heavy punch to her jaw sending her sprawling to the wood of the platform. Othain doesn’t know this woman, and in fact suspects that he would never like her – but he feels indignation rise in his gut as she lands. Maxwell takes an instinctive step forward, stilled by Cassandra.

The other Templar, the one who feels _different,_ places a hand on the offending one’s arm. “Still yourself – she is beneath us!”

_Beneath us. What an arrogant fool._

Upon closer examination, Othain is startled to find the same crest upon the wrong one’s armor as is upon Cassandra’s – the all-seeing Eye of the Seekers.

_A Seeker, then. Why does he feel differently from Cassandra…?_

“What is the meaning of this?!” Maxwell shouts at the unnamed Seeker. “You attack those you are meant to protect?”

“We are meant for nothing but our own glory,” the Seeker says. “I have come only to see this Inquisition and its dread Herald, and I am disappointed.”

Maxwell’s eyes flash in anger, indignation.

Cassandra steps forward. “Lord Seeker Lucius, I-”

“You will not address me,” the man, Lucius, descends the opposite side of the platform alongside his Templars.

His curt response halts Cassandra in her tracks; she looks startled, even shocked, eyes unfocused as if caught off-guard. “Lord Seeker?” Her confusion is plain in her tone.

“Creating a heretical movement. Raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. You should be ashamed,” the Seeker’s voice is rough and grating, deep and angry. The line of his shoulders is tense through his armor, and one hand remains at the pommel of his sword. His gaze sweeps the crowd before returning to Cassandra, to the Herald. “You should all be ashamed! The Templars failed no one when we broke with the Chantry to fight the mages. You who would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear – you have failed us. The Chantry has shown me nothing – the Inquisition, even less.”

“Lord Seeker-” Cassandra begins again, her anger beginning to rise, but Lucius sweeps her aside.

“Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!”

They depart in a crashing of armored feet on stone, having come and gone in a whirlwind. Everyone in the courtyard seems shocked into silence, the crowd quickly dissipating – in fact, the assembled had begun to make their uneasy departures soon after the Templars’ arrival, wary of potential violence.

“Well that was… something,” Varric says uneasily as their group reforms at the base of the central spire,

“Cassandra, do you know this Lord Seeker well?” Maxwell is irate, arms folded over his chest now that he can safely remove them from the pommel of his sword.

“Lucius took over the position of Lord Seeker following Seeker Lambert’s death a year ago,” Cassandra says. “He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is… very bizarre.”

“Not given to grandstanding? Are you certain you speak of the Seeker we just encountered?” Othain asks with a quirked brow. “I don’t know what, but something is off. He doesn’t feel … detached in the way you do, Seeker,” he says. “Something feels wrong about him.”

“That is… disturbing,” Cassandra says. “But I am unsure what it could be. For now, let us conclude our business here and be on our way.”

Maxwell nods, and Cassandra gestures to the stage where Hevara is seated and leaning against one of the Chantry Father’s that accompanied her; her breathing is heavy, and she is clearly still recovering from the shock of being struck by a Templar. Othain is silently impressed; he didn’t think a frail old woman such as herself could withstand a direct blow from an armored Templar and remain conscious.

“You must be very pleased with this victory, Seeker Cassandra,” Hevara spits as Maxwell and the aforementioned approach her.

“Do not blame us. We came only to speak; this matter with the templars is your own doing,” the Seeker says imperiously, looking down her nose at the Chanter.

Hevara only scoffs. “And you had no part in forcing our hand? Do not fool yourself. Just… tell me, Trevelyan. Are you what they say? The Herald of Andraste?”

Maxwell considers his response for a long beat, no doubt aware of how his response might be spread by the Mother. “I cannot say for certain, Mother Hevara. I don’t know. What I do know is that I want to help.”

At that, Hevara releases a pent-up breath, visibly relaxing a little. “That is… more reassuring than you might expect,” she says gently. “I cannot say either; my convictions, much like those of my fellow clerics, are now scattered to the winds.”

Cassandra seems ready to speak further, but Maxwell nudges her arm and bids a hasty farewell to Hevara.

“Let’s go,” he says to the Seeker in a low voice, steering them towards the gate leading out of the courtyard.

The courtyard is somber now, less busy with the noise of commerce in the wake of the templar disruption. Othain follows at the back of the group, still wary of the templars; they could, after all, be anywhere in the city still.

At the gates, they are stopped by a voice behind them; Othain throws up a hasty barrier at the sound, turning to find an older woman, Elven, with short black hair pulled back and dressed in a lavish robe in the style of an Orlesian mage.

“If I might have a moment of your time?” She begins, her voice low and gravelly. Her accent, too, is Orlesian.

Cassandra’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

“Leader of the mage rebellion.” Solas, this time. He takes a step towards her, suspicious as the Seeker is. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

“I heard of this gathering, and wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes,” her response is simple. It is implied : _of course it’s dangerous._ “If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps you should look among the mages.” This last bit addressed to Maxwell.

“I’m surprised you weren’t at the Conclave,” Othain speaks up now, his own wariness of the Enchanter all too clear. This is too convenient.

“Yes, you were supposed to be, and yet you conveniently avoided death at the hands of the explosion,” Cassandra adds.

“As did the Lord Seeker, you will notice,” Fiona doesn’t seem at all concerned with their suspicions; perhaps she anticipated it. “Both of us sent negotiators in our stead in case it was a trap… I won’t pretend I’m not glad to live. I lost many dear friends that day, and it pains me to think that Lucius shall get away with it.”

“You think the Templars are responsible?” Maxwell steps forward, his interest piqued by her response.

Fiona scoffs, derisive. _Why wouldn’t she?_ Her manner is too calm, too easygoing for Othain’s liking. It sets his nerves on edge, like there’s something there that he can’t see. At least with the Lord Seeker, his stance was plain.

“Lucius hardly seeks broken up over his own losses, if he cares at all,” she sneers. “You heard his position on the mages. You think he wouldn’t happily kill the Divine to turn people against us?” Then, after a beat of silence. “So yes, I think he did it. More than I think _you_ did it, at any rate.”

“Hmph.” That from Cassandra, her displeasure evident.

“The rebellion was unwilling to speak to us before,” Maxwell’s tone is measured; he has the tact to be neutral in how he speaks here. Perhaps it is born of a lifetime among nobles. “What changed?”

“I have seen what you are, and I have seen the Chantry for what it is,” Fiona says. “Come, meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all… I hope to see you there. _Au revoir,_ my Lord Herald.”

The Enchanter doesn’t give the Inquisition time to consider her proposal, or to respond. She retreats back into the shaded alcove from which she emerged, ducking away from the public eye and disappearing once again.

Maxwell watches after for a moment, no doubt stunned by the rapid turning of events over the past several minutes. It’s enough to leave anyone reeling, and Othain thinks that being at the center of it must be even more disorienting.

“Come. Let us return to Haven,” Cassandra says, turning on her heel and making her way back down the Avenue of Her Reflective Thought.

“The Seeker is right, Herald,” Othain’s tone is gentle; Maxwell seems so overwhelmed, he can’t help but try to pull him from his thoughts. “We have time enough on the road to consider what we have witnessed here.”

Maxwell nods, surprised enough at being spoken to by the slighter man that it pulls him from his reverie and to the present.

“Right. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone mentions it: yes, they are still recruiting Vivienne and Sera. I just didn't want to include those messages because I don't want to feel like I'm writing a transcript of the game. You all know what happens lmao. 
> 
> But yeah, this chapter was quite the ride. More to come soon! I love hearing from anyone reading this, so comments and kudos are always appreciated. Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition meets with the Mage Rebellion in Redcliffe. Othain struggles in the aftermath of his encounter with the Desire demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to drop this here and ignore how long it's been since I posted. Life has been kicking my ass these past couple months. Ironically, I'm suddenly possessed of a lot more free time to write. So, I hope you enjoy.

The advisors are already mid-debate as Maxwell throws open the heavy door to their impromptu War Room. While he isn’t of the leadership of the Inquisition, per se, he is an instrumental de facto participant of the decision-making process. All of this would be meaningless without him, after all, and the advisors often find that having a perspective that isn’t uniquely tied to a specific function of the Inquisition is useful in framing their debates.

And so, Maxwell is privy to their arguments over whether to pursue an alliance with the mages of Redcliffe or with the templars, who have reportedly disappeared into Therinfal Redoubt, a traditional stronghold of the templar order in the southeast of Fereldan.

“Even if we had the allegiance of the mages, we don’t have the infrastructure to support-”

“We would require the same infrastructure to support the Templars.”

“Yes, but the Templars aren’t prone to becoming abominations!”

Maxwell’s entrance prompts a pause in their debate, Cullen and Leliana disengaging almost sheepishly from how intense their argument had become. Josephine, notating a document on the board cradled in the crook of her arm, nods to him amicably.

“Good morning, Herald,” she says in her lilting Antivan accent. “I hope the sixth bell is not too early for an _invigorating_ debate.”

Maxwell chuckles and draws a chair from the periphery of the chamber and towards the table. “No, Lady Ambassador. I was just hoping to debate the merits of mage rights versus templar functionality.” He lands heavily in his seat. “Do we even have the influence necessary to arrange an alliance with either one of these factions?”

The ambassador nods, though she hesitates before she speaks. “Yes, although it is complicated. The templars have retreated to Therinfal Redoubt and refuse parlay with any outside party. Given the tone of the Lord Seeker’s… interesting display in Val Royaux, I believe we could petition Orlesian noble houses to ally with us to demand that they act. However, at present they are something of an unknown quantity.” She takes a seat near the eastern wall. “The mages, as you know, have extended an invitation to Redcliffe. This is our most clear indicator of a possible alliance, although the Grand Enchanter was very deliberate in not extending the _promise_ of an alliance. Perhaps she wishes to gauge the Inquisition’s competency? It is still very risky.”

“But it _is_ a present option,” Leliana sighs. “The templars may not even be a feasible approach.”

“I don’t see why we need to choose one immediately,” Maxwell responds. “What if I went to meet with the mages while Josephine proceeds to petition these Orlesian nobles? I could be back with news before they respond.”

That proposition gives them pause – they had been so focused on which one to choose that they hadn’t considered approaching both before weighing their options.

“I… suppose that would be sensible,” Cullen says slowly, scratching at the back of his neck, almost bashful. “As soon as you and Seeker Cassandra can fulfill the necessary requisitions, you should be able to go. Perhaps tomorrow morning.”

“Bring the mages with you. You will likely need them.” Leliana seems pleased with this course of action.

Maxwell nods, standing from his seat. “I’ll see to it.”

***

The tavern is bustling at the best of times. In Haven, which has become a surprising hub of soldiers, spies, Chanters, dignitaries, there is no shortage of those who want a drink or a meal before they return to the icy roads of the Frostbacks. Or, more often, of soldiers who are eager to get drunk enough to forget their injuries, their tired and worn muscles.

Othain doesn’t drink. Rather, he hasn’t tried it yet, and hasn’t been persuaded to. He also avoids the tavern on general principle, being well-equipped to find his own meals and disinclined to spend time in the public spaces of Haven.

Still, there are some things he can’t procure on his own.

“Excuse me – I just need some tea leaves,” he says over the ambient roar of the drunkards.

“You want some tea?” Flissa, Fereldan woman, skittish in general but particularly around Othain. “I can grab you a mug-”

“No, miss, I just want a sachet of the leaves,” he sighs. “Quickly, please.” Flissa nods and darts into the kitchen.

Behind him he hears the loud, deliberate _cluck_ of a tongue.

“Well, well, how quickly one falls into disfavor.” Orlesian, pompous, grating: Othain recognizes the voice without turning – the Chantry mage from before, who’s been among the most prominent of his antagonizers.

He turns to the mage, carefully schooling his expression into neutrality. “Do you need something? I’m rather occupied.” The Chantry mage, on the other hand, has a smug expression stained across his broad, annoying face.

“Oh, nothing… I’ve just noticed that the Herald seems to have lost his interest in you,” the mage says. “I’d say your days in this organization are numbered, witch.”

An impatient sigh. _Does this cretin have no better use for his time?_ “Is that so?” Othain fights the irritation rising in his gut. “Have you noth-”

“Shove off, piss ‘ead”

A slender hand at the end of a yellow plaideweave sleeve appears on the mage’s shoulder and then abruptly steers him out of the way. Sera, rather pleased with herself, plants herself on a stool alongside Othain. “Arse.” She turns back towards the mage, and with an aggressive flinch she sends the fool running. “And a bitch, too. So, feathers, what brings a robe like yours into the tavern with the rest of us?”

_Feathers. I suppose Varric has gotten to her._ “Just getting some tea. I’m sure you already knew that,” Othain says. At least Sera is preferable to the leashed mage. If she’s crude, at least she’s straightforward and uninterested in politicking. She is also cleverer than most assume, and Othain knows that if she’s speaking with him, it’s because she wants something.

“Right, right, saw ye talking to Flissa. Listen, do me a favor? For gettin’ rid of that pissbag,” she jumps straight into it. “When the lass comes back, _you_ tell her how thankful you are that _I_ stepped in there.”

Othain snorts. _She just wants to impress the barmaid?_ “You must be really invested, Sera, your shirt isn’t even stained.”

She sniggers at that, making a show of examining her blouse. “Yet.”

“Yet,” he repeats with an amused huff. “Alright, I-” in the periphery of his vision, he sees Flissa returning with a few sachets of tea leaves. Abruptly his voice raises, a smile plastered on his face. “Oh Sera, thank you _ever so much._ How good of you to come to my defense there – I am glad to see there are _good folk like you_ in Haven!”

“Here’s your tea, ser,” Flissa hands him the sachets with a curious glint in her expression. “The Lady did what now?”

Othain deposits some coin on the counter, eager to be gone from the noise, the light and the stench of the tavern. “I’ll let her tell you about it,” he maintains his smile as he gathers the tea and makes to leave. He doesn’t fail to see the wink that Sera gives him. “Good evening, ladies,” he finishes before hastily removing himself from the premises.

Not before colliding with Maxwell on his way out.

“Othain-” the Herald says, blinking, curious, unfazed by the small figure deflected off his mass. “What are you-”

“Herald.” The younger man simultaneously acknowledges and dismisses him, ducking away from the taller man and _finally_ making his exit.

***

“My dear, your personality is showing.”

Othain snorts as he carefully prepares a forkful of spiced lamb, Vivienne’s watchful eye on him as she slices hers more delicately. At least the food is good.

_Why in Thedas did I agree to such a triviality._

They are dining together at the Enchanter’s insistence, and certainly not through any desire of Othain’s. Without his even knowing, she had somehow arranged for quite the extravagant meal, a much more involved affair than any that the witch had seen before. Spiced lamb on delicate spring herbs, some sort of aromatic grain that he doesn’t recognize drizzled over with a black, savory sauce, breads and cheeses and other asundries of every kind. Othain doesn’t know what half of it is, let alone understand how the Iron Lady came to possess it in the desperate and barren ice field that is Haven.

It stands quite in contrast with the modest setting. Vivienne’s fine, decorated porcelain looks almost too fragile poised on a table composed of wooden planks, in a hut that is warmed only by the enchanted hearth. Outside, the biting wind picks up. There will be a snowstorm out of the North, soon.

He chews in silence. After having left Val Royeaux, he had been in the mood to improve his social graces. The cultural revelation that was the capital of Orlais had left him overwhelmed, and wishing he were more adequately prepared to exist outside the context of a secluded hut. Now, however, his fleeting convictions are passed and he wishes nothing more than to conclude this dinner as quickly as possible.

“It is customary to engage in conversation with one’s fellows as one dines,” she notes dryly, having allowed the silence to stagnate for several moments.

Another long silence. Othain tries the grain. It’s been positively drowned in butter – another luxury in Haven. It’s delicious.

“Very well, let me present to you a topic of conversation: our mutual friend and darling Maxwell. It’s come to my attention that you are treating him quite unfairly.”

At that, the young witch looks with ire from his plate to the Enchanter. “The Herald and I aren’t friends,” Othain bites, “And I’ve no obligation to treat him in any particular way”. He can’t help his continued avoidance of the other man. The silence between them is an insurmountable obstacle. How does one breach the subject of his avoidance? His vision of the Desire demon is still fresh in his mind. The heat, the proximity, the enchanted, drunken, heady quality to it all. The realization as the illusion dispelled, Maxwell looking somewhere between concerned, wary, embarrassed. _Was he angry? Betrayed? Disgusted?_

When he sees the Herald it’s only fresher. “I am here to fight the Breach, and for this reason alone.”

“Don’t pretend not to know what you’re doing. You and I both know you aren’t as daft as you pretend,” Vivienne is unfazed. “I have spent a lifetime in the Imperial Court, my dear; I can spot a lie at a hundred paces.”

Othain sniffs the goblet of red wine curiously. Any device that can distract him from this conversation. It smells heavy, sweet and acrid at the same time. Perhaps now isn’t the time to try this particular devil. Madame de Fer is formidable both as a mage and as a politician, managing to keep him off-balance at all times and unable to find his footing. In her, he senses a dangerous quality that he also understands in Leliana. Whereas most Orlesians leave him contemptuous of their frill and their vapid pomp, he can’t help but respect the Iron Lady.

Even in Haven, she manages to keep herself immaculate in every way – elaborate hair dresses, styled robes, manicured nails. Every facet polished to a shine. For any other noble, the effort required seems a waste, a frivolity. For Vivienne, poise is a state of being, her natural mode. It is almost enviable.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Othain sighs, leaning back. The only defense against one such as she is to maintain one’s calm. To never betray any kind of weakness. “I-”

“- If you wish to maintain your place in this organization, I advise you forget whatever inane embarrassment you feel,” Vivienne catches his gaze and holds it. “and speak with Maxwell.”

“I don’t _have_ a place in this organization. As I said, I’m only here to-”

“Then leave.”

A beat of silence. Othain is frozen mid-motion as he had begun to lean forward. His eyes narrow on the unimpressed Enchanter. He feels his magic react to his sudden emotion, but he quells it with effort, the pool of mana bubbling invisibly and retreating back into him. _Leave?_

“Excuse me?” he says quietly, deliberately. No other sound pierces the interior of the hut.

“If you are so inclined to pretend that nothing in this world matters to you, then why fight the Breach? Return to the woods and read a book under the exposed roots of a _tree_ for the rest of your life.” Her tone is dripping in acid. “Otherwise, recognize that your attitude impacts the success of this _team_. Grow up. Your upbringing is no excuse to refuse to grow.” Then, after a pause. “And if Maxwell were truly bothered that Desire took his form, then he wouldn’t be quite so upset that you’re ignoring him.”

Othain huffs angrily, a rapid intake of breath as he prepares an angry retort – but pauses. He sits back, eyes still trained on the Enchanter.

_What game is she playing at? Is she trying to remove me? Do I present some sort of obstacle for her?_

_Or… is she right?_

He has been rather childish, and he’s refused to see it in order to protect his own dignity. A dignity that, he realizes now, he may have undone entirely. Still, he doubts that his silence has bothered the Herald as much as she claims. And one such as she doesn’t go to these lengths out of some notion of sentimentality. Somewhere here, she stands to gain, or she must. Othain knows her attitude towards practitioners outside of the circle. Perhaps she wants to trick him into leaving. And if he stays – what does she gain then?

Wait – _how does she know about Desire?_

“How did you know about…” he struggles to finish his question, and yet she understands him still. A wry smile crosses her lips.

“Oh, you’ll find I am very perceptive, my dear. Don’t you worry.”

Another lull; Othain pushes some grain across his plate while he thinks. Vivienne concerns herself with her own goblet, allowing the young mage to stew.

“I don’t want to leave. I don’t… think so.” He says slowly, with difficulty. He rises from his chair and gives the Enchanter a curt bow. “I need some time to think. Please excuse me.”

Vivienne nods. “Do decide soon. You are set to leave for Redcliffe in the morning.”

***

Despite the sheer number of hours, days, years, Solas has spent dreaming, he is as enamored as ever with his exploration of the Fade. Certainly, in those days after the Breach rent the fabric between their two worlds, this region of the Fade had been devoid of spirits of any kind. The Elf was delighted to find that after that shock faded – becoming incorporated, as all things do, in the material and conceptual essence of the Fade that defines both its content and its mannerisms – that the region is increasingly populated by rarer, fascinating, curious spirits who come from afar to observe the Breach. So, in the breaths of his free time that have become increasingly rare, Solas sleeps.

In this region of the Fade, the Breach is a jagged and seeping wound that twists and spirals from the upper tip of the sky – although that word is relative in the surreal land of dreams – to depths unknown to the elf. Its shape is wholly different from its mirror in the waking world. The perception and curiosity of spirits has shaped it, spreading the knowledge of its existence and thus extending its conceptual influence to ever more far-flung regions of the Fade until it became a grotesque thread that bound a vast geography of the Fade’s islands together.

In the region ‘near’ to Haven, there is a spiral cluster of these Islands, spread out vertically hundreds of meters and spanning an impressive distance; when he dreams, he always finds himself at the base of the spiral, and explores every night towards the goal of reaching its apex. Six of them, so far, he has explored, and yet he’s only found his way one-third of the way up the spiral. There are paths, of course, to the experienced dreamer. Passages that reflect back onto themselves and into a different space, portals of brackish purple smoke, conceptual doors that will open only for the strong-willed and the cunning.

This night, he is astounded to find a much more _direct_ path has appeared. Not that it isn’t within the realm of possibility for the Fade to change suddenly, however –

These bridges appear constructed, contrasting the naturally occurring, amorphous masses of stone, dirt, moss, water. They are beautiful, even. Polished white stone capped in silver and wrought iron. Sentinel statuaries flanking the ends of each impossible construction.

_No, these are not native to the Fade. I can think of only one person who could have placed these here._

Solas ascends the steps. Cautiously, quickly. Already the Fade is beginning to mimic these structures – veins of silver and wrought iron growing along the stone edges of the islands, white stone steps to nowhere stuck in the sides of monumental, floating rocks.

The bridges continue all the way to the top of the spiral, the island at its very apex. It’s a flattened disc in shape, dotted in stone spires and green crystals of shadowed veridium. Along the bridge connecting it to the penultimate island is flocked a host of spirits, who observe their visitor with open curiosity.

“Solas,” Othain calls to him without turning from his seated position. Cross-legged on the wispish grass of the island, he faces the Breach unmoving, pensive. His voice echoes, ripples through the dream-space. Solas can’t help but grin when a spirit nearby tries the word out for itself. _So-ll-as. So-las. Solas._

“Othain,” Solas takes a seat next to his young friend. “You seem troubled.”

A beat of silence. “Not troubled, but thinking,” his voice trails off. His gaze never leaves the Breach. “I’ve never taken a moment to… prioritize. To consider…” he seems to struggle to find the right words, caught in between the Breach and this moment and his own thoughts that, in the Fade, swirl like the eddies of an ocean current, almost a breeze. “To consider what I want, and why I’m here. I followed you here, and then stayed because there was – is – a crisis, and now-. I think I’m just reacting to things that happen to me. It isn’t what I want.”

“So what _do_ you want?”

A beat of silence.

“It’s going to sound strange, but,” his gaze drops to the translucent blades of grass. “I want to be safe. And as contradictory as that sounds, I think I’m safest with the Inquisition, fighting the Breach.”

_Safe._ That word ripples through the spirits. A glittering, glaived hand that reaches to him – warmth in his chest. Solas feels he is beginning to understand as the abstract impressions of the Fade wash over him.

Othain continues. “And… I find myself wanting to protect. Not in any sort of inane, _heroic_ sense. I’m too selfish, I’m – not suited to heroism like the Herald is, like Cassandra and all the rest of you. But I want to protect you, and Varric, and – do _not_ tell the dwarf I said that – and I find myself, too, wanting to protect the Herald.”

Another impression, mnemonic and abstract. The warmth of a hearth, a deep and throaty laugh.

There’s a long pause as Solas considers the younger man carefully. “Even if it is selfish, there is a certain merit to wanting to protect your friends,” the elf says. “I am glad to see you considering these things. Otherwise, as your life passes you by, you will find that all you have is regret.”

At that, Othain finally turns to face the elf, only to find that he’s gone. Awake.

***

As is becoming their departing routine, they meet outside of Haven’s front gate at the fourth bell, horses fed, saddled and packed, ready to depart. There before all others, seeing no need to pack or to saddle a horse, Othain stands cloaked on the gate’s flank. In a night spent questing the Fade for meaning – a futile effort in and of itself – and then, later, tossing sleeplessly, he didn’t rest well.

_What does it matter. I can manage well enough._

Still and silent, he could be easily confused for one of the long shadows cast in the faintly growing light.

The others appear in an order that, too, has become familiar. Cassandra, followed by their newer addition Vivienne – Othain ignores the approving smirk he receives from her, the knowing nod – then Maxwell, Varric and finally Solas. He’s never late, really, but he is easily the slowest to rise. The elf is fond of his sleep.

Their forays into Thedas from the little hamlet have become much more efficient with the horses, and Othain expects it will take them no more than three or four hours to reach Redcliffe. Maxwell tries to suggest, in vain, that Othain take a mount or join one of the others’ on theirs. The younger refuses, stoic, suppressing the sensation of his arms wrapped around the Herald’s waist, face pressed against the armored back as he adjusted to the sensation of the horse’s rolling gallop.

As Cassandra demands that they _get a move on, already_ , he disappears in a cloud of smoke. Emerging only a single raven against the silky grey of the dawn.

Redcliffe sits along the south-eastern shore of Lake Calenhad, nested between the hills and verdant greenery of the Hinterlands and the clear blue waters of the vast lake. It isn’t too far off from their forward camp at the Crossroads, and they pass through the town and then onto the highway North towards the Arling’s capital.

Yet, as they draw nearer to the city, Othain feels an indistinct discomfort, something heavy and wrong at the edge of his perception, something that his magic invisibly coils against and recoils from. He returns to the ground, shifting from his feathered shape and taking a deep breath. He receives a questing look from Solas. He climbs with some displeasure atop the elf’s horse and mutters something about being fatigued. They continue on their way – they are drawing closer. Just around the bend, the gate to the city awaits.

“Solas…” he gets the elf’s attention quietly.

“I sense it too. Something is wrong ahead,” the elf says without turning. “We should alert the Seeker.”

“Seeker,” Othain clears his voice before speaking up, drawing the surprised attention of their traveling party. “I don’t know what it is, yet, but something feels wrong on the path ahead. It’s-”

“Stay back! Keep the gate closed until that _thing_ is dealt with!”

Solas’ horse rears as a woman in a soldier’s runner’s uniform – _a messenger?_ – passes them by at a sprint; at the same time, a wave of Fade energy washes over them. A rift.

Cassandra dismounts and makes her advance on foot, the glowing wound in the Veil hissing and bubbling, masses of Fade residue falling to the ground. “Demons!” She calls behind her. “We shall deal with them!”

On instinct, Othain casts a barrier over their party, weaving the densest of defensive measures over Maxwell and the Seeker. Demons continue to fall from the Rift – perhaps six or seven now. He extends his magic to one of the bubbling mounds of ichor and dismantles the demon as it forms, when it is at its most vulnerable.

Maxwell cleaves through the gangly, knotted limb of a Terror that extends from the damp earth – steel arcing through it and answered with a rending, shrill cry. Another flash, and the greatsword is embedded in the demon’s chest before ripping through it. Next to him, Cassandra rebuffs a shade with her shield, kicking its sickly form to the ground and piercing it with her sword. Another shade, attempting to flank her, was stunned with that strange, staticky power of the Seekers before it, too, fell to her steel.

Othain watched almost passively, maintaining the barrier. A wraith, on the periphery of their conflict, began to channel its meager power before he reached out, curling shades of power, hexing it into nothingness.

Still, something feels wrong about this Rift – more so than normal, anyway. It gnaws at Othain’s stomach, turning it subtly.

Another Shade – the last of the demons dropped by this Rift – approaches him from several yards in that sweeping, lunging gait that the Shades possess. He readies himself for its approach, dark purple smoke pooling in his palms, preparing to launch it into the gut of the creature just as it draws near –

All at once, the Shade is in his space, _directly_ in front of him. He flinches backwards, just barely dodging the venomous ichor that reaches for him, releasing the hex into the space ahead of him and dismantling the creature mid-air.

He collapsed to his seat on the ground as Maxwell finished sealing the Rift, regaining his breath. _What was that? Shades can’t… not unless they’re in the Fade. Right?_

Solas is next to him, crouching, helping him to his feet. _Did he see? Did the others see?_ “My friend. That was rather odd.”

“I’ve never seen a demon do that. I’ve never seen a Shade move so quickly,” Othain says as his breath finally catches up to him. “Almost like…”

“There is something different about this Rift,” Solas nods. “Come, let us regroup with the others.” The Herald, the Seeker, Varric and Vivienne had, at this point, gathered in front of the gate, speaking animatedly with the guard on the other side. The runner returned, breathless, and bid them draw open the portcullis.

The witch and the wanderer draw closer to the others as the gate opens. Cassandra is engaged in conversation with an Inquisition agent just inside.

“Othain? Are you quite alright, my dear?” Vivienne says, noting their arrival.

“I’m fine. Concerned… something is wrong here. This Rift… was different.” He draws his cloak about himself, ignoring the various looks of their traveling party.

“Perhaps the Grand Enchanter will know more,” Solas says.

Cassandra finishes her briefing and approaches the group. “Perhaps, but there has been a _concerning_ development. Nobody here seems to know of our arrival, and it seems that the Grand Enchanter is no longer in charge here. We are to meet with her in the Gull and Lantern.”

Maxwell, frowning, looks between Cassandra and Othain. “This is a lot to take in. Let’s hear what the Grand Enchanter has to say.”

“Yes. Let’s.” Cassandra’s voice is dipped in ire, impatient. She is not fond of the unknown, of things that aren’t clear-cut.

***

Redcliffe is the absolute archetype of Fereldan architecture, winding dirt and cobblestone paths flanked by low stone walls that wind their way down the hillside. Tall and broad wooden structures bearing lowland art and carvings, scattered stonework of eagles and the hounds that Fereldans are so fond of.

The village, once ravaged during the Fifth Blight of a mere decade ago, is largely recovered, its luck and its wealth bolstered by its location, nestled between the Imperial Highway and Lake Calenhad. Silver flows constantly through the veins of the capital, between the dwarven thaig of Orzammar and the Fereldan capital of Denerim. There is one remnant of that recent Blight, the shattered and rotted remains of a windmill high on the hill above Redcliffe, on the path towards the castle. Othain’s eye rests on the overgrown, collapsed structure as they make their way through the town. Even awake, he can feel the spirits flocking towards it, pressing against the Veil there.

_I wonder… what memories does this place hold?_

A low, throaty chuckle on his right. Maxwell is giving him a curious look as he watches the tower. Othain averts his gaze, feeling restless under the Herald’s.

The air in Redcliffe is tense, the village full to bursting as it houses the entirety of the Mage Rebellion. The true rebels, not the rabid, fringe extremists who were dotted throughout the hillsides. The peace is as uneasy as its residents, the Chanters and their flock pressed against the throngs of displaced mages. Othain notes the curious lack of the Arl’s soldiers.

As full-to-bursting as the village is, the Inn seems to have been emptied – for their meeting, presumably. A handful of mages are seated at the far end of the inn, no one else present save the innkeep, who busies himself with a glass, polishing it with perhaps a bit too much fervor.

Othain hesitates in the entryway, posting himself wordlessly at the door, choosing to observe as Maxwell and Cassandra approach the mages. Fiona, formerly chief among them, rises from her seat.

“Agents of the Inquisition,” she begins, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing those who approach her. “Why… are you here?”

“We’re responding to your invitation, back in Val Royaux,” Maxwell’s tone is measured. Cassandra hovers just behind him, hand on the pommel of her sword.

“You must be mistaken. I haven’t been to Val Royaux since before the Conclave,” confusion flits across her expression.

“If this is some sort of game, it’s a very poor one,” Maxwell’s response is accompanied by a scoff from the Seeker. “I’m quite certain it was you. You invited us to speak with you.”

The confusion in her eyes deepens, searching for something hidden under the surface of her memories. Her expression is almost pained. “That is… but why does that sound so familiar? Well. Regardless of whoever or… whatever… brought you here, the situation is changed. The mage rebellion has,” she hesitates, either embarrassed or unsure. “Pledged itself to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

A beat of silence. Disbelief.

Varric whistles under his breath. “ _Shit._ I’m trying to think of a single worse thing you could have done, and I’ve got nothin’.”

“Are you mad?” Cassandra is somewhat more direct. “Are you determined to turn the whole of Thedas against you?”

_How incredibly… odd. How did we not hear of this? How did our Spymaster-_ Othain’s thoughts are cut short by voices outside the door, approaching quickly. He darts away from the entrance to stand just behind Maxwell’s flank, a barrier slipping almost without his bidding over the redhead.

“As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.” Fiona hides behind the will of another, denying subtly the culpability of her choice. Wishing to escape the scrutiny of the Inquisition.

“Pathetic,” Othain mutters under his breath, drawing the eye of the Grand Enchanter, but no response. She knows it, thinks it herself.

The door to the Inn swings open, two Tevinter soldiers flanking the doorway as a man enters. He’s hooded in blood-red robes belted over dress armor. His complexion is weathered but his gaze is shrewd as he scans the assembled agents of the Inquisition. He’s followed by another, shorter, similarly armored and robed but in a saffron-gold. His hood is down, his head shaven.

They are mages; the former is _powerful_ indeed, while the shorter one has less of a talent.

“Welcome, my friends! I apologize for not greeting you earlier.” His Common is spoken precisely, calculating as his eyes. They dart to Othain, and on instinct the witch draws his power into himself.

_You’re a fool, boy._ Hadria’s words echo in his skull, his veins run cold – why does he get that same searching, _hungry_ feeling… the way the Witch’s eyes felt, roaming over him at every opportunity, looking to his power. He is suddenly vulnerable yet he steels his nerves.

_This is not a man to trifle with._

Fiona’s voice, breaking his train of thought: “Agents of the Inquisition… allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius, of the Tevinter Imperium.”

The Magister now draws level with their group, striding confidently past the Inquisition and alongside Fiona.

“The southern mages are under my command, now,” his gaze continues to rake across their company before landing on Maxwell’s marked hand. On instinct, Othain weaves his barrier just a little bit tighter. “And you…” the Magister continues, “are the Survivor, yes? The one from the Fade? Interesting…”

Cassandra takes this development in stride. “We are here for mages to close the Breach, Magister.” Othain can appreciate, at least, that her duty comes before her pride as a Seeker. To her, and to all of Southern Thedas, the Magisters of Tevinter must represent the epitome of a mage’s unchecked power, political corruption and foul magick rolled together into the antithesis of the Chantry’s doctrine.

“Ah! To business then,” Alexius’ look darts to her, and he claps his hands together. “I understand. Felix – would you send for a scribe, please?” The younger – in yellow – takes a few paces towards the table where Gereon is leading Maxwell and Cassandra. “Pardon my manners. My son Felix, friends.”

His words are friendly, but Othain can sense the invisible coiling of magic against Maxwell and Cassandra, encountering the barriers there, swirling about their feet and probing their strength. This man is cunning, indeed, wearing the face of a friend while searching for the smallest chink in their defenses. Othain knows that the other mages – perhaps even Cassandra can sense it too – Solas and Vivienne have thrown up their own defenses. 

“I am not surprised you are here. Containing the Breach is a feat that not many could even attempt,” Gereon says as he takes his seat, as does Maxwell opposite him. “There is no telling how many mages would be needed for such an endeavor. _Ambitious_ , indeed.”

“We don’t think small, here,” Maxwell’s voice is confident even if he isn’t. He holds surprisingly steadfast against the uncertain waters of this situation. “We need as many mages as we can get.”

“There will have to be-” A shift from the edge of the room, stumbling – Othain and those gathered look to see Felix, pale, leaning briefly against a table for support. Maxwell and the Magister stand abruptly, the former stepping instinctively forward. Felix falls against him for support, the two staggering slightly under Felix’ weight; Gereon, too, flinches forward, reaching for his son.

“I – I don’t mean to be any bother,” Felix says weakly.

“Felix!” The Magister abandons his façade, and Othain feels the other’s magic move to sheath the younger Tevinter, attempting to fortify him from whatever it was that ailed him. “Quickly – we shall fetch your powders.” Felix shifts to lean on his father, wincing with effort. The Magister makes way for the door. “My apologies, friends. We shall have to continue this at a later date – _Fiona!_ I require your assistance at the castle!”

As quickly as he arrived, the Magister leaves, flanked by his soldiers and followed closely by Fiona and her attending mages.

The inn, empty, sits in stunned silence. Othain scans the room, the barest release of magic that coats every surface in search of wards, sigils. He is satisfied and somewhat surprised to find none.

“Well, then, that was certainly…” He begins before noticing Maxwell staring at a leaflet of crumpled parchment. “What is it?”

“A note – from Felix,” Maxwell’s voice tinged with confusion. Then, reading from the note: “Meet me in the Chantry… You are in danger.”

“Sounds like a trap to me,” Varric says, rubbing his neck now that he can take his hand from Bianca’s holster.

“Everything is a damn trap,” Maxwell says, crumpling the paper into his pocket. “Let’s go.”

***

Of course there was a Maker-damned Rift _in_ the Chantry.

The moment that Maxwell pulls the great oaken door open, a bolt of errant magic fizzles against the barrier that Othain has maintained over him since the moment they approached the gate into Redcliffe. The witch won’t _speak_ to him, and yet he seems to prioritize protecting Maxwell over anything else.

Well. That confusing thought aside, Maxwell finishes shoving open the entry into the Chantry, slipping inside just as someone – _another_ Tevinter mage, it seems – strikes down a Shade beneath the Rift. The man is young, Felix’ age, tall and deeply tanned. The rest of their Inquisition company follow, fanning immediately into the sepulcher of the Chantry that is empty, save the Tevinter and the restless Fade Rift suspended above the alter.

“There you are!” The mustachioed man doesn’t seem fazed or surprised in the least by their arrival. He gestures to the Herald, to his marked hand. “Now help me close this, will you?”

Maxwell doesn’t respond. There’s no time to, as a bubbling mass of that demonic shit – ichor, Othain calls it – falls to his feet. He prepares to strike, but a tether of black energy lashes out to the half-formed Shade and dissolves it. He casts a grateful look to Othain, the raven-haired man red in the face from exertion, eyes focused but meeting his for just a moment before he lashes out to yet another creature falling from the Rift.

_Right. Shouldn’t get distracted._ With a grunt of effort and a stride forward, he arcs the greatsword through the air in front of him to meet a Shade mid-lunge. The steel cleaves the creature in two. On his flank, another bolt of magic fizzes to nothing against Othain’s barrier.

Maxwell has fought alongside a mage or two in his time. Never has he been shielded so strongly, never encountered defensive magick as complete as that of the wild witch.

He knows that the wraith that attacked him has already been split by the arcane blade of the Knight-Enchanter. He advances on a Terror just as it seems to notice him. One foot in front of the other, blade at the ready –

And everything slows. Rather, _he_ slows, and the demon moves all the more quickly. It prepares to lunge, wicked and hooked talons high in the air for the space for a mere moment before falling, lightning quick.

Something broad, invisible, coiling against his abdomen and pulling him backwards and away from the falling strike of the Terror. A runed bolt passes him by and lands in the demon’s chest, the lyrium there eating at its form and sending it back to the Fade.

Maxwell kneels, winded, casting about him wildly – _what just happened?_ Othain is next to him, concern written on his face as he throws a hex at an encroaching demon. Maxwell doesn’t understand – he had felt suspended in time, his sword-arm moving so, so, painfully slowly. The Terror accelerating beyond comprehension.

Back at the entrance to Redcliffe, he had seen something similar, hadn’t he? _The Shade, approaching Othain and then suddenly right in front of him as if displaced by some foul magic._ Othain and Solas had said something was wrong with the Rift.

But those questions can come in a moment. Maxwell groans to a stand, right hand gripped ‘round the haft of his sword. _Focus on the Rift._

The Mark is hungry, always. Pins and needles along his arms that flare to life as he extends his hand towards the Rift. He doesn’t know if the Mark is aware, if he directs it consciously or not, but somehow when he intends to connect to a Rift it happens instinctively.

The tether forms, electric and green against the dusty, dark interior of the Chantry. Eating away at the Rift’s edges while the last of the demons are dispelled. It collapses in on itself, Space folding into place and leaving there no remnant of the angry, torn sky.

The Mark swells with power before receding into that same sense of statick. Maxwell lets his sword drop, nearly spent. Silence reigns.

The Tevinter looks around curiously, examining in particular the space that was once occupied by the Rift. “Fascinating. How does it work, I wonder…?” He muses out loud as his scanning look falls on the Herald, winded and catching his breath, companions gathered around him and examining the Tevinter suspiciously. A brusque laugh, accompanied by the flash of a startlingly white grin. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and – _poof_ – Rift sealed. Marvelous.”

“Who are you?” Maxwell almost growls. Generally he tries to stay friendly, but he’s got no time for games, and suddenlt isn’t in the mood for chatter.

“Right, getting ahead of myself, I see! Dorian, of House Pavus,” the other gives a slight bow, a flair of his gloved hand, staff in the other. “Most recently of Minrathous.” His voice is full of bravado and show, his eyes glint with – what, mischief, or perhaps something else? Now that Maxwell can see him better, he must admit that the man looks rather friendlier than the other Tevinters he’s encountered. Olive skin, dark brown hair that’s closely cropped on the sides and disheveled in that sort of curated way on top. A high-collared, ivory robe belted over a tunic of the same material with fine leather breeches and gloves.

In fact, the man wears more belts than could possibly be functional.

“Another Tevinter,” Cassandra sneers. “Be cautious with this one.” Her hand rests on the pommel of her sword, and Maxwell expects she is ready to Silence the mage at the first misstep.

“Suspicious friends you have,” the Tevinter – Dorian – doesn’t seem fazed. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“I was expecting to find _Felix_ here, not you,” Maxwell responds.

“I’m sure. Felix was to give you the note and then meet us here after ditching his father,” for the first time, concern flits across Dorian’s expression. His gaze darts to a side passageway into the Chantry.

Cassandra notices the look as she takes a step forward. “What is wrong with the Magister’s son? He seemed quite concerned.”

“Ah, yes. Felix has had a lingering illness for quite some time. His father dotes on him, you see. Felix is an only child.”

“Are you a Magister as well?” Othain says, eyes trained on the other mage.

Dorian huffs, rolls his eyes. “Alright, I’m going to say this just once. I’m a _mage from Tevinter_ , but not a _member of the Magisterium._ You Southerners use the term as if they are one and the same – which they are not.”

Othain wrinkles his nose and refuses to respond.

Maxwell sighs, pinches his nose. “Quit talking like you’re waiting for applause. What have you brought us here for?”

“Oh? Is there no applause?” Dorian says with a dramatic flourish. “How unfortunate.” Then, just as quickly, his gaiety disappears, his expression sober. “Look – you must know something isn’t right here. That should be obvious, even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mages out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Well that’s exactly right. In order to reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted Time itself.”

Maxwell’s eyes widen – Othain is sure that everyone’s probably does. The witch hears Vivienne scoff.

“I’ve never heard of any magic that can do that – do you have evidence?” Maxwell calms his expression, watching Dorian, wary.

“That’s quite right, my dear,” Vivienne says approvingly. “People have tried to shift Time for ages, and no one has ever succeeded. It is madness.”

“I helped to develop this magic,” Dorian cuts in impatiently. “While I apprenticed under Gereon, it was pure theory… yet I’m sure you’ve noticed it for yourself. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it is bleeding into the Rifts here. You’ve seen how they seem to distort Time around themselves, yes? Soon, more like them will appear, further and further from Redcliffe.”

A pause – Dorian catches his breath, seeming animated and more than a little frustrated. He catches Maxwell’s gaze and holds it with grave intent. “If Alexius continues to abuse this power, then we may wind up with a hole in more than just the sky!”

“Well,” Maxwell hesitates. “What’s his goal? Why is he doing something so reckless just to get to the mages?”

“That’s what I don’t understand. Why tear Time to pieces over – what, a few hundred lackeys?”

“He isn’t doing it for them.” From the auxiliary entrance, Felix’ voice. The younger man looks considerably better now, even as he bears a grim expression, striding into the Chantry towards Dorian. He looks to Maxwell. “He’s doing it for _you._ ” Then, to Dorian: “Sorry I’m late. I shouldn’t have played the illness card – thought Father would be fussing over me all day.”

“Look,” he continues, “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists – they call themselves the Venatori. And I can tell you one thing – whatever he’s done for them, he’s done to get to you. They’re obsessed, but I don’t know why.”

“Alexius is your father,” Maxwell is cautious. “And your former mentor,” to Dorian. “Why are you working against him?”

“I love my father, and my country,” Felix sighs. “But this? Cults – Time Magick? This is madness. For his own sake, he’s got to be stopped.”

“It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in Time,” Dorian notes dryly.

“Do you have any suggestions?” Maxwell asks with a sigh. This is a lot to take in – Othain can imagine that this would send even the most stoic of people reeling.

“You know that you are his target,” Dorian muses, “so anticipating the trap is the first step. I can’t stay in Redcliffe; Gereon doesn’t know I’m here, and I prefer it to stay that way. But when you do confront him, I want to be there.”

“Are you coming with us to Haven, then?” the Seeker asks.

“Perhaps soon. Not at the moment,” Dorian responds. “Now I must bid you all farewell, for now. Do call on me if you decide to return.” He makes for the exit before stopping short. “Oh, and Felix – try not to get yourself killed.”

“There are worse things than death, Dorian,” Felix’ response is just short of a whisper. He looks to the Inquisition agents. “Farewell, then. And safe travels.” He leaves by the front door, leaving the Herald stunned and silent.

That silence extends into the next several moments before anyone moves. The Chantry is darkened, no longer illuminated by the eerie green of the Fade, nor the sun setting outside the village. The Veil is thin, the Fade restless – it presses uncomfortably against Othain’s skin.

The young witch moves to Maxwell’s side, hesitates, places his hand on the other’s shoulder. “H – Maxwell. We should go and bring word to the others.”

Maxwell nods, as if broken from a trance, his eyes meeting Othain’s, light blue and black. He looks to the hand on his shoulder and Othain, face quickly flushing, withdraws it and takes a step back. “Right,” the Herald says. “It’s almost night. Let’s stay in the Inn and move in the morning.”

Cassandra looks as if she would like to argue but settles against it. “Very well. You go and make arrangements. I shall send a messenger ahead of us to Haven.”

***

_This place… Othain does not recognize this place. A stretch of cobble road, worn, ancient. On one flank of this road, a mountainside that has been ravaged by millennia of mining, dotted with quarries and tunnels. On the other, a rolling foothill descending into plains. In the distance is a settlement. Trevis, he understands, but only by the impressions of the Fade._

_He has entered into someone else’s dream. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, when he was young and would spend countless hours exploring the refuge of the Fade. Gylhen used to dream of halla and open fields, of his first hunt-_

_Othain shakes his head to dispel that memory, lest he unwittingly shape this person’s dream, whoever this is._

_A drawn carriage approaches. An opulent one, preceded and followed by mounted guards. They are dressed in silver armor polished to a shine in the midday sun, in that jagged and spiked style favored in Tevinter. The carriage that they lead is broad and somehow armored and beautiful all at once, pulled by three horses larger than any Othain has seen. Blood-red drapes trimmed in white and gold, patterned in coiling snakes._

_There is nothing remarkable in this dream. Merely a carriage traveling north – possibly out of Orlais? Othain believes they are not too far off the border._

_The ambient sounds of birds calling, of grass and leaves rustling in the wind, of wood and steel rolling down the road, is pierced by the strangled sound of some strange war horn. Out of the mountain, a shifting mass of grey that draws nearer accompanied by the whoops and calls of some vicious creatures. The soldiers dismount their horses just as arrows and bolts begin to cleave the air between the two parties._

_Othain recognizes these creatures only from his travels in the Fade, of older and darker dreams. Darkspawn._

_The traveling party did their best to resist. The soldiers held their own against the darkspawn advance for several minutes, managing to fell six, eight, now ten of their foes. This is an uncommonly large host of the creatures, perhaps twenty more coming from the tunnel-ridden mountain. The soldiers are overrun, and the inhabitants of the carriage emerge._

_A woman and a young man, the former evidently a formidable mage. She catches a few of her foes in a glacial enchantment, buying time for them to begin to run before she is caught in the shoulder by a darkspawn bolt._

_Othain draws closer, careful to remain an observer to the dream. Why does the young man look vaguely familiar?_

_It’s Felix. He’s in a lighter robe than the saffron and silver ensemble of before, now in white traveler’s garb. The darkspawn chase him, the woman flagging, collapses. He stops, turns, goes to her. She casts a glyph beneath them, one that Othain recognizes as a glyph of warding. She expends the last of her mana to send a flare into the sky above them, startling the darkspawn that are encircling them._

_The dream stops. Stock-still, the flare suspended mid-air._

_“Grim, is it not?”_

_Alexius. The Magister’s voice rings, echoes through the space. Othain finds the older man kneeling next to the Warded pair. This must be his dream._

_“My wife, my darling Livia. She died here, protecting our son. It was here that Felix acquired the darkspawn taint.”_

_Othain doesn’t know how to respond. He draws nearer to the older man, observing the disgusting darkspawn forms, the arrow suspended in time on its way to Felix._

_“You seem surprised,” Alexius says. “I am not a Dreamer, but I have known one before. You are not the only Dreamer born to this age – not even the only fully-fledged. One such as you is uniquely talented in walking and shaping the Fade, yes, but someone who is well-versed in their craft can learn to dream more… actively.”_

_“I see.”_

_“So, the Inquisition has a Dreamer among their number,” Alexius stands, turns his gaze towards Othain. “You should know, young Dreamer, what I do… I do for my family. My son.”_

_“And how far would you go? What does working with this… order… earn you?”_

_“For my son, for Felix,” Alexius voice drifts into echoes. “Anything. As for my order, the only thing you need know is that we will not be denied. My son’s survival hangs on their success.”_

_A beat of silence. Alexius, still kneeling next to the frozen shadow of Felix, hand hovering mere inches from the spot on his chest where the arrow is doomed to strike._

_“What is it that your order wants?” Othain asks. He holds the Magister’s gaze unfazed. Here in the Fade, the other man cannot challenge him. If he wanted to, he could extract the information from him now._

_Perhaps the other man realizes this, as he breaks the younger’s gaze. He looks, slow, across his dream. “Will you break me, then? Here in that darkest moment of my life… my deepest regret.”_

_He could._

_He could trap this man in this dream, he could twist this moment into ever darker and more sadistic forms. In the Fade, even a mage so formidable as he would be powerless to a Dreamer._

_A younger, more thoughtless Othain might have done it. He might have gladly twisted the information from him._

_And yet… this isn’t what he wants. What he’s trying to be. How could he look Solas in the eye, or Maxwell…_

_“No,” Othain says, kneels alongside the magister, examines the frightened pair. A gesture of the young witch’s hand, the barest sigh of magic. The darkspawn forms dissolve into ash and fade into nothingness. “I don’t think I will.”_

_***_

The War Room rings with a stunned silence.

“We cannot contend with the Magister,” Cullen is the first to speak. “If we march on a Fereldan Arling out of Orlais, it would mean war. Not to mention these _Venatori._ ”

“Yes, let us speak of the Venatori. You don’t mean to leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep, in control of the mage rebellion?” tone pointed, Leliana leans over the maps of Fereldan and Orlais. She doesn’t look to the others, wishing to maintain her calm.

“Well what do you suggest we do?” She isn’t the only one who’s frustrated. Cullen’s hand rests on the pommel on his blade – they’ve learned by now that this is no threat, but rather something that calms the older Templar when he’s agitated. 

Josephine stands from where she had sat annotating upon her board. “Cullen is quite right. In order for us to march on the Venatori, we would need to petition both the Empress as well as Ferelden’s king. Celine has… rather more pressing matters concerning her, and the Fereldans will not permit an Orlesian Inquisition to march on Redcliffe.”

Maxwell leans against the wall with a heavy sigh, head falling against the wall with a thud. Now isn’t the time for him to weigh in.

Cassandra’s fist on the table breaks their argument, if for a moment. “The magister cannot be ignored.” Then, as Cullen is about to speak – “But let us move on for now. We have received news from Orlais?”

“Yes, and rather _better_ news. We have rallied ten of the more … religiously inclined Orlesian houses, in order to petition that the Templar Order join us in sealing the Breach. What’s more, the Lord Seeker has responded.”

Cullen and Cassandra both relax noticeably at the news, and Maxwell would be lying if he said he doesn’t find it promising. Although…

He remembers clearly the self-righteous, almost frothing anger of the Lord Seeker. His condemnation, not only of the Inquisition, but also of the Chantry to which the Templars owed their allegiance. At least, historically so.

Is this the man whose favor they will court? Is this the force with which they wish to align themselves?

At least the Seeker and the Commander are bolstered in confidence. The former, impatiently so.

“And?”

“His response was… reticent, and yet he permits us to march to Therinfal Redoubt. He will hear our petition, it seems,” Josephine sighs. “It is a somewhat more clear and present option than to march on Redcliffe.”

“I agree. Cassandra, Herald – you should prepare to leave for Therinfal Redoubt.”

“The _Magister-_ ”

“We can find another solution for our Venatori problem after the Breach is closed.”

“Yet we have clear evidence that these Venatori were likely involved in creating the Breach!” Leliana’s voice pierces the tense War Room.

“I’m not suggesting we ignore the Magister,” Cullen says. “I’m suggesting that we acquire the aid of the Templars. Real, trained Templars who can counter the Venatori. _Then_ we deal with Alexius.”

Silence, as the others contemplate their options. It is true enough that dealing with the mages will require time, resources and a level of diplomacy that is currently beyond their reach. As much as it turns his stomach to leave the Magister to his own devices, he cannot deny that the situation is dire, time-sensitive.

_The mages won’t be pleased. Hell, I’m not pleased about it myself._

_Othain won’t be pleased._

“I… don’t like it,” Maxwell says, the Inquisition leaders’ eyes falling on him. It isn’t often that he takes the initiative to make a decision, yet when he does, they listen. He has a gravity to him, that quality that makes others watch his actions, listen to his words. “I don’t like leaving the Magister in Redcliffe, and yet I have to agree with Cullen and Josephine here. Let’s move on Therinfal. We can deal with Alexius later.”

The consensus that follows is uneasy, silent, but resolved.

“Very well, Lord Herald,” Josephine picks up her quill. “Come. To work.”

***

A spark, a release of magic, just outside the cabin. Othain looks up from where he had been coiled into the corner of the warm little shack, swathed in blankets and a heavy leather-bound book nestled into his lap. A broken ward.

A moment later, the _rap_ of three consecutive knocks, solid but not intrusive.

He knows who it is before he hears the voice. The magic of the Mark, of the Breach, is like a lit beacon. Othain could likely pinpoint the man at two hundred yards in the dark.

“Othain?” Then, a moment later, almost hesitating. “Are you busy? I, uh. Solas said you would be here.”

Hmph. The witch says nothing, opening again his book so he can distract himself from the gnawing unease of ignoring the Herald. A long silence passes.

_I advise you forget whatever inane embarrassment you feel._ Othain scoffs to himself, quietly. The Herald knocks again, thrice. _And speak with Maxwell._

_Your upbringing is no excuse to refuse to grow._

Dammit all. Maker damn that thrice-cursed Enchantress. The door is silent. Perhaps Maxwell gave up – Othain’s throat feels tight, suddenly, and his nerves spike. With a gesture, the door opens and he removes himself from the bundle of fabric. Round the bookshelf, towards the entry to the cabin. “Come in-”

“Hi,” Maxwell, quiet, just inside the doorway. He hadn’t left, after all.

“Hi,” Othain stands stock-still just a couple meters short of the door. The Herald is in his civil wear, a cobalt-blue tunic tucked into breeches of august ram leather. A vest of the same material over the tunic, framing well his broad shoulders, belted in blue highever weave. The young witch takes a step back, gesturing towards the table. “Come in. Uh – tea?”

Maxwell laughs, shoulders relaxing easily. Makes his way towards the table. “Sounds great, Othain. I notice you’re without your cloak.”

Othain grimaces as he makes for the kettle, seeking to busy himself. He’s a little underdressed, he realizes too late. A loose, dark grey tunic over black cotton trousers. The tunic is a little large, something Seggrit supplied him, and the neckline is rather wider that he would like. He pulls the tunic up a little as, with a gesture, he heats the kettle. _What kind of tea does he like? I have elfroot. Perhaps he wants something nicer. He’s of some noble house, yes? Perhaps the lavender. Could just ask him._

“What kind of tea?” He asks, turning to find Maxwell seated, eyes fixed on him.

“Whatever you like,” the redhead’s reply is easy. He leans back into the chair, watching the witch grind the dried elfroot just slightly with a few loose lavender petals before preparing a sachet. “I have some news, Othain. I’m not sure you’ll like it. So I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

“Oh? Something I will like better than a Tevinter cult after your head, I hope,” Othain muses out loud as he grabs two mugs. Then, eyes widening. “I did not mean – I would not make light of the Venatori threat, I just – Maker, damn it,” he sighs. 

“Don’t worry Othain,” Maxwell says gently. He hadn’t expected that to be the first thing on the other man’s mind. “Though I can’t promise… well, I’ll let you decide how you feel about it. We’ve decided to petition the Lord Seeker in Therinfal Redoubt. We don’t have the resources or the influence to deal with the Magister, not now.”

Othain stops pouring the water, looking the taller man in the eye, disbelieving. “Surely not. That is a very poor jest, Herald.”

“It’s no jest. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s our only real option.”

Othain is silent for a long moment, as he finishes pouring their mugs and then places the tea sachets into them. Turns from the counter and carefully places both mugs on the table. “Very well. I will not… protest. It is not my decision to make. When are we leaving?”

“That’s the other thing, Othain…” Maxwell wants, now, to break his hold on the other’s gaze, to avert his eyes from the black ones that watch him carefully. “You aren’t coming with us. Cassandra won’t allow it, in case we have trouble with these Templars.”

“Cassandra won’t-” the Witch’s tone is abruptly cold. “Cassandra won’t allow it, or you don’t want it?”

A beat of silence. If the air of the cabin had been uneasy before, shy, then now it is tense like a drawn cord. It thrums and vibrates with the barest disturbance.

“I don’t – what do you mean?” Maxwell says. “Why wouldn’t I-”

The Witch stands, face pale, visibly restraining his reaction. Is it a trick of the light, or is the cabin darker? Colder?

Othain can feel the pressure in his chest as his mind races. _This is where I am cast aside. Vivienne was right. I have no more place in this organization. It was only a matter of time._

“You – you are disgusted, are you not? Ever since our encounter with the Desire demon. You want me gone,” His voice is barely just a whisper, and yet it could echo in the silence of the cabin.

“Want you gone – because of the demon? Othain, that isn’t what I want, what are you talking about? Is _this_ why you’ve avoided me?” _Hurt, confused._ “You think – what do you think, exactly?” Now Maxwell, too, is standing. Expression at once indignant and concerned, searching Othain’s. He takes a step round the table and Othain backs away, towards the counter.

“I think you want me gone. Just like everyone else. You pretend otherwise, but I know it must be the case.” Othain is backed up against the counter now, and Maxwell standing just a few paces ahead of him, next to the hearth. Shadowed on one side, illuminated on the other by the light of the fire. “How could I have any place here? A _hedge witch_ , and now…” He doesn’t finish that sentence. His whole body feels tense, heavy, the muscles of his neck and face taut from holding his composure as steadily as they could. Heat and pressure just beneath the surface. His eyes water, and he can feel the cracks as a tear descends his left cheek.

_And now what? Some sort of… pervert, pining in the hidden corners of his mind, unknown even to himself. Revealed by a demon, of all things. Taken in by a foul illusion. Lilac smoke and magic, sweat, steel._

Othain’s gaze falls to the floor. Silence, deafening silence. He retreats into himself, feels the cabin air draw in on him, colder by the second.

“Othain.”

When did Maxwell close that distance?

“Othain, look at me.” He does as he’s told. Maxwell is just in front of him, eyes clear and blue as ever but now written with concern. He’s tanned a little, from their travels, the sun-kissed skin creasing between his furrowed brows. Freckles that Othain now notices scattered across the bridge of his nose.

Maxwell holds his gaze. Among the only ones who ever have, from the beginning.

“I’m not asking you to leave,” his tone is measured, his eyes gauging the other man’s reaction. “We only want to keep you safe. You’re more vulnerable to Templars than most. I wouldn’t see you hurt in this quest.”

_Safe._

“You do not want me to leave?” The raven-haired man’s voice is small, ever smaller. Doubt cuts his confidence, stills his voice.

Maxwell could almost laugh. He doesn’t. “No, Othain, I don’t want you to leave.” He’s wary to do anything – this moment is so precarious, fragile; it could fracture in any of a dozen ways. Yet one of his hands finds itself along Othain’s jaw, almost cradling. Blue eyes meet black once more and hold them there, urging them to understand the things that he doesn’t know how to say. “Please. I want you here.”

A release of breath that Othain didn’t realize he was holding, shaky and unsure but brighter, lighter.

“I… I am sure I can make myself useful while you are off,” Othain says and straightens a little. Maxwell grins an unabashed, wide grin. “And… thank you, Maxwell.”

“It’s my pleasure,” the redhead says with a low chuckle.

The cabin air is warm once more, the lights brighter. In the hearth, enchanted, flames dance a little more merrily. Perhaps neither of them notice; the Herald is oblivious to the space between them, or the lack thereof. They’ve grown quite close in their tension and emotion.

“Um. Maxwell…” a flush blooms across Othain’s cheeks as he realizes that the other is practically pressed against him, his back to the counter. Maxwell is… tall, and broad, and he feels practically swallowed in the other’s shadow. Framed between the man’s arms.

“Yes…?” his grin is mischievous. Othain wonders if he knows what he’s doing. Surely this isn’t _deliberate._ The man is only… friendly. Right?

“I, um. Need some air. Herald.” He eyes deliberately the minute gap between them. Maxwell waits a moment, long, deliberate, before dropping his hand, stepping back. His grin never faltering.

“Of course, Othain. As long as you understand: the Inquisition _needs_ you here, but I _want_ you. Here. I will never ask you to leave.”

The younger man’s carefully school expression finally cracks, smiling wide, relieved.

A beat of silence, one’s eyes never falling from the other.

“Let me… I have something for you,” Othain says. “Wait there.”

Maxwell watches, intrigued, as Othain retrieves a worn leather satchel from near his bed. It was of fine make once, but is well worn, the decorative stitchwork on its surface deteriorating with time. He rustles around in the bag, kneeling, before retrieving something from it. Clasping his hand tight around it. Maxwell grins at the delight, bordering on innocence, in the other’s eyes as he stands, hand clasped around whatever it is, and approaches him again.

“This… is something very precious to me. One of my few heirlooms of another life, before the Brecilian Forest, before Hadria.” He opens his palm to reveal a smooth river stone, dark black veined with white and silver. In it, a sigil in gold.

A dragon, rearing on its hind legs, with a wicked expression and even more wicked claws.

In the next moment, Othain folds his two palms over it to enclose it, bringing the stone to his lips and whispering into his framed hands. Even Maxwell can feel the whisper of magic, washing over him like water, somehow lighter, cooler. The finest of silks on his skin, the breeze that passes over a meadow in the clear moonlight.

Othain then opens his palms again, presents the stone to Maxwell. “I want to protect you, Maxwell. I’ve wanted to practically since I met you. This stone was my sister’s – no, listen,” he prevents the Herald from interrupting him once he hears that. “It is precious, yes. But it will protect you. Be careful, Maxwell. Return safely.”

There is a long silence as Maxwell takes the stone, carefully, almost gingerly, and sets it face-up in his own palm. It’s cool to the touch, smooth like the water that shaped it, and – beneath the surface, the same magic that has protected him ever since he stepped out of the Fade.

How funny – Maxwell knows nothing of magic, nothing of that craft, and yet he can identify that distinct power of the Witch with ease.

“Othain, this means more to me than you know,” he says, eyes trained on the man before him. He brings the stone to his lips, kissing it gently. “I will treasure it. Thank you.”

“So long as you remember what I said,” a gentle flush across Othain’s high cheekbones. “Now go on. Cassandra likely suspects that I have ensorcelled you,” he sighs then, noting that Maxwell isn’t moving but merely watching him with intent, gives the man a gentle nudge towards the door.

“Get some sleep, Herald of Andraste. You shall need it.”

“Maxwell,” the redhead says. “Call me Maxwell. Not the Herald.”

Othain hesitates, but the hopeful look of the other draws him in. “Very well. _Good night_ , Maxwell.”

“Good night, Othain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, what a chapter. I really hope that it works fluidly with what I had already written. I re-read the previous chapters and just got back into the story, and had to continue it. This chapter is kinda dialogue heavy. Hope that wasn't a negative.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition and its allies arrive at Therinfal Redoubt, and get rather more than they bargained for. Leliana makes a request of Othain that leads to a discovery. Maxwell confronts the Lord Seeker, or so he expects.

The trip to Therinfal Redoubt had proven to be a rather more… _boring_ venture than Maxwell anticipated. Accompanied by Cassandra, Vivienne, Varric, Solas and the Iron Bull, he met with a caravan of nobles out of Orlais, and together they made the trip East through Ferelden. It was slower going by carriage than by horseback, and his frustration with the slow pace mounted by the hour.

_This is a matter of alliance, Lord Trevelyan,_ Lady Montilyet had anticipated this very issue. _And such talks are difficult to accomplish on horseback._

He understood all too well – he was a noble himself, after all, and to no small degree familiar with their kind. The great carriages, armored horses, the chevaliers in glittering dress armor who flanked their caravan, the various standards that stood high enough above their party as to be seen from a mile away: they were not mere pomp, but rather they were weapons, a means by which one utilize one’s wealth and prestige to intimidate, to cull the masses. Even more present than the standards and décor of the nobility, however, was the Inquisition. Their caravan lead and followed by Inquisition soldiers, their banner flying high and the Eye of the Inquisition ever present.

And since the Lord Seeker seemed drawn to _glory_ , inexplicably so, this was the best hammer for this particular nail. Still, if Maxwell heard Lord Abernache recycle one more time that tired, practiced line about the reclamation of the Dales, he would absolutely lose his lunch.

The journey did end, however. They passed with a minimum of difficulty through the hills of the Hinterlands and into broad, golden plains of Southron that were dotted here and there by sleepy villages, abandoned ruins and wooded glens. Maxwell had wondered, more than once, what Othain might see in these places, imagined that inquisitive glint in those normally shadowed eyes. Often his hand found itself traveling to the river stone that hung now from a leather cord at his neck, the gold dragon just visible where the collar of his tunic opened at the collar.

That moment was… something, truly. He didn’t understand, before, why Othain had been avoiding him. After their encounter with Desire, of course he thought things would be awkward, but he hadn’t actually _rejected_ the man. And every time he tried to talk to Othain about it, the mage was busy in the apothecary, was running some errand, or – more often – was hidden in the woods surrounding Haven. Leliana told him that an agent had tried to figure out where it is that he goes, only to lose him every time.

Maxwell had to admit, it grated under his skin a bit to think that Othain assumed that he would reject him, but he knew why. He wasn’t blind – he saw how often the Chanters, the villagers went out of their way to make a public spectacle of belittling the man; even the other mages antagonized Othain. Without Maxwell realizing, Othain had come to the silent conclusion that everyone wanted him gone. It must have taken no small amount of resilience to stay for as long as he had. He palmed the stone gently, relishing in its refreshing aura.

He would have to correct that misunderstanding, and soon. Last night, he’d all but made up his mind. In the firelit cabin Othain’s face was framed and shadowed by inky curls about the temples and almost down to his jaw. His face was thin but not gaunt, high cheekbones and a prominent jawline, thick black eyebrows and a creamy complexion. And his lips-

It had taken considerable willpower not to kiss him, but it wasn’t the right time. Othain doesn’t take well to feeling vulnerable, Maxwell can tell. And so he’s determined to let the other man move at his own pace – to a point.

_That is, of course, assuming that I’m not imagining things._ With the energy that had charged the air between them that night, he doubted very much that it was in his imagination.

More than once he’d noticed Varric, Solas or even Vivienne eyeing him as he held the stone, his gaze in the middle distance and his thoughts even further, in Haven.

Eventually they pass again into hills that border a shadowed wood. Therinfal Redoubt sits at the very border of the Brecilian Forest, and as they approach that little-understood place, his thoughts again return to the younger man.

Yet, they have a duty to do, and as they draw near the old Seeker fortress, he steels himself against such stray thoughts, thumbing the stone absentmindedly and feeling its ambient magic at work. He thinks, wistfully, that he’s taken for granted the powerful defensive magicks of the young mage. He almost feels naked without that familiar, densely-knit barrier, walking into possibly-hostile territory.

Therinfal Redoubt is impressive by any standard, sitting atop a great hill on the edge of the Brecilian Forest. Its Great Hall is flanked by two stone towers that rise high above the rest of the structure, encircled by tiers of broad, crenellated stone walls. A veritable complex of great stone structures surrounding the Keep. Crimson flags, enormous, bearing the flaming sword of the Order cling to every parapet, every barracks, and frame the great portcullis into the first of two courtyard.

Maxwell, stepping out of his carriage and feeling suddenly small in the shadow of the great Keep, takes a deep breath and steps forward. Confidence is his shroud against the uncertainty that pervades the humid air, and he wears it well. At Josephine’s insistence he is dressed for the occasion in glittering silverite mail in the Fereldan style, one great pauldron on his left shoulder. His iron greatsword – one that he acquired in the aftermath of the explosion at haven and had been using ever since – was deemed unfitting for him to represent the Inquisition, and Harritt had seen him outfitted with another. This one is longer, broader and yet better balanced, steel blended with bloodstone.

_At least I’ve a weapon, still._ The weight of the blade sheathed at his back gives him some measure of confidence.

His companions descend their carriages as well, Varric giving a low whistle as they approach. “Quite the castle, but I wonder why they’ve come somewhere so … remote?”

A great stone bridge is the only avenue of approach for the visiting party, and that twists in his gut uncomfortably. Something is wrong here – he knows it already. So many things about this situation simply don’t add up.

Atop the gatehouse, a head ducks out of sight. A moment later, trumpets sound from within the Redoubt, signaling their arrival.

“Well, they know we’re here,” he huffs and makes his way across the bridge. Lord Abernache practically jogs to draw level with him, no doubt eager to be among the first to make their entrance. The man is particularly trussed up today, a fitted, embroidered waist-coat worn over a silk chemise with exaggerated puffed shoulders, no doubt the latest in Orlesian fashions. A fine mask sits on the bridge of his nose, a faint green to match the minty tone of his vest.

“Dear Lord Herald,” he says as he catches up with the warrior. “Do represent well. Everyone here is a little tense for my liking, and yet – I sense only opportunity! Let us claim our prize, eh?”

_Our prize._ The man reeks of desperation and favor-mongering. Maxwell grins a little, gives a small nod. “Of course, Lord Abernache. I cannot reiterate enough how pleased we are to be here alongside your House.”

That earns him a satisfied _Mph_ from the Orlesian. He moves back to speak with another Orlesian, by the name of Childebert. They talk of hunting, and of their impending success in ‘collaring’ the Templars.

The portcullis draws open, and from it emerges a templar officer flanked by two knights. He’s dark-skinned, his head closely shaven. He’s quite tall, built like most templars are. Maxwell recognizes him from Val Royeaux. The knights either side of him remain helmeted.

“Inquisition,” he says as they draw near. “and your… allies. Welcome. I am Ser Delrin Barris, Knight-Templar. Lord Herald, if I may,” he gestures to Maxwell. The two other knights move to greet the attending nobles, shepherding them into the courtyard.

“Greetings, Ser Barris,” Maxwell begins, cautious. There are Templars everywhere, if one cares to look, lining the tall walls that encircle them, hidden in the shadowed corners of the courtyard. “Impressive fortress, this.”

Barris finishes drawing them further into the courtyard and aside, separate from the others. Maxwell feels a barrier slide over him, Vivienne’s instead of Othain’s. “I’m the one who sent word to Cullen,” Barris’ voice is quieter now, dropping the formal tone. “I didn’t know you would show up with such…” he scans the courtyard with clear disdain, “lofty company, and yet _this_ is what garners our Lord Seeker’s interest. Beyond comprehension,” he sighs. “The sky _burns_ with magic, and yet he ignores all calls to action until-”  
“Ah, Herald, you are already putting that silver tongue to use, I see,” Abernache’s voice, approaching quickly. Then, as he arrives alongside Maxwell, turning his attention to the Knight-Templar. “Barris, you said? Moderate holdings, your family. And the second son…?”  
“Ser Barris,” Cassandra cuts in. “This news concerns me. The Lord Seeker ought to be working towards restoring order to the Templars.”

“The Lord Seeker has taken command. Permanently,” the man’s response is flat, his discomfort clear. “He claims there is a holy mandate, and our commanders parrot him.” A defeated sigh. “I may just be a Knight, but the Lord Seeker’s actions make no sense to me. He pledged to restore our honor, and then marched us here to – what – to wait? Templars should know their duty,” he says as he looks to the West, in the direction of Haven. “Even when held from it.”

“A Templar who remembers his duty? How reassuring,” Vivienne quips from behind Maxwell.

Barris prefers to glaze over that comment, his gaze remaining trained on Trevelyan. “I can promise you this much – many in our Order sympathize with your cause, Herald. Win over the Lord Seeker, and every able-bodied Knight shall help the Inquisition seal the Breach.”

“Ah, yes, the Lord Seeker,” Abernache speaks up. “It’s about time we met with him, no? Take us to him – there is important work to do, for those born to it.” His thick, unwieldy Orlesian accent grates on Maxwell’s nerves just as much as his inflated ego does. Barris ignores him.

“The Lord Seeker has a… request, before you meet him,” he sighs. Gives a motion of his gloved hand, and another portcullis connecting the first courtyard into the second, at the entrance to the Great Hall, opens with a rattle of chains and steel. He moves towards the opening, and the Inquisition follows.

Ahead of the entrance is a well and a few auxiliary sheds, gateways leading into the rest of the rather large complex. Barris leads them into this courtyard and to the right, turning to the stone wall through which they just passed. Mounted on it is a system of three crimson banners, each bearing a different sigil in gold – on the left, the sunburst of the Chantry; on the right, the flaming sword of the Templar Order; and in the middle, the lion of the People.

“These are the Standards,” Barris says. “An honored rite, centered on the People, the Maker, and the Order. The Lord Seeker asks that you perform the rite so that he may see the order in which you honor them.”

“And what is the Lord Seeker looking for, exactly,” Maxwell grimaces. After more than a week’s journey by carriage, he isn’t looking to jump through any more hoops.

“There’s no correct answer,” Barris sighs. “The rite only shows people who you are, what’s important to you. It’s symbolic.”

“I see,” Maxwell says, taking a step toward the standards. A few yards ahead of each standard is a wheel mounted to a pulley – Maxwell sees, now, that each of the flags is mounted to the wall on an iron rail that is connected into the pulleys. “The highest goes first, I take it?” He asks over his shoulder, not bothering to check the response. His decision is clear to him. From behind him, he can hear Abernache hurling something indignant at the Knight-Templar. The nobleman seems to receive no response.

_It’s a good thing the Knight is patient,_ Maxwell could almost laugh, even in the oppressive atmosphere of the Redoubt. He gets to work, gripping the wooden wheels and, with no small effort, working the age-worn mechanisms there.

The lion is the first to ascend, followed by the sunburst, and then the sword. There are murmurs from around the courtyard; Maxwell isn’t sure how he likes to have his decisions scrutinized thus.

_Well. At least we can move on?_

“In keeping with tradition, you must now explain your choices to those assembled,” Barris says. Maxwell can tell in his tone, in the worried lines of his frown, that even he is tired of… whatever this is.

“My decision was clear to me, in keeping with the goals of the Inquisition,” Maxwell’s voice is loud and clear in the humid air of the courtyard. “We work towards peace: for the People, under the guidance of the Maker, and with the help of the Order.”

He sees Vivienne quirk a small grin. _Is that good or bad?_ He looks to Varric and only receives a shrug.

He can practically hear the dwarf in his imagination. _Beats me, Sparkles._

“Your decision makes no sense, _Herald_ ,” sneers Abernache. “What was the point of this charade, if not to curry favor with the Lord Seeker?”

“I suppose those are _your_ intentions,” Barris quips before Maxwell can answer.

“My intent is to speak with people who matter!” Abernache, like most nobles, is not well-equipped to being dismissed. “You are wasting the Inquisitions time – and _my_ time. Unacceptable!”

A heavy sigh; Barris rolls his eyes, making no attempt to disguise his chagrin. “Very well, then. The Lord Seeker awaits.”

***

Othain is no healer, but he knows more of herbs and poultices than many. His familiarity is born of a long immersion in the Wilds, and his upbringing with the Witch. Within the borders of Hadria’s sanctuary, many an evening was spent in the garden carefully cultivating Elfroot, Felandaris, Arbor Blessing, Lotus of the Dawn and Dusk. Rashvine, Spindleweed, Embrium bloom. If he hadn’t been a mage, he might have been an apothecary himself.

So, absent the company of the Herald and his companions, he made himself busy with Adan, the gruff man whose task was to single-handedly provision the Inquisition’s medical and herbal needs. _Almost_ single-handedly. In his free time, Othain had alleviated some of his work, and now he’s decided to lean into the role more fully.

“Othain, be a pal and grind this for me,” Adan says, handing the witch a bulb from an Amrita Vein. “And then-”

“For a burn cream? Elfroot and embrium?” Othain interrupts, and the older man grumbles his approval. With a gesture, dried elfroot leaves and embrium blooms find their way to his impromptu workstation. He finishes wiping down his mortar, placing the amrita bulb in it and getting to work. Adan makes his way back to his own workstation towards the entrance of the apothecary.

“Adan, is Othain here? Oh – nevermind, I see him, thank you,” Leliana’s voice, from the entryway. Swift, light footfalls moving towards him. He sighs and sets the mortar and pestle down, plastering a smile on his face and turning to the Spymaster.

“Hello, Sister Nightengale,” he says as the hooded woman draws near. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hello, Othain. I’ve need of your… particular skills,” she begins tactfully. “Once you are done here – as soon as you can. In Josie’s office.”

_Josie?_ The madame ambassador – right. Her name is Josephine. “Very well,” Othain says as he reprises his tools. “I shall finish this up and join you shortly.”

He continues crushing the amrita bulb, the desert plant’s thick green cuticle giving way to the creamy white interior, a milky substance that is known to cool a burn and ease recovery. Once it’s been fully incorporated into a pulp the witch shreds a couple of dried elfroot leaves along with an embrium blossom, grinding them into the mixture as well.

He finishes by preparing the poultices, strips of cleaned cotton onto which he spreads the mixture, wrapping them up into individual rolls. Ready to be applied to the next victim of a rage demon’s flames, or a stray acid vial.

“Adan, I shall return shortly. I’ve business with the Sister,” he calls to the apothecary once his materials are cleaned and put aside, replacing his cloak about his shoulders and making his way to the Chantry.

Luckily, the apothecary is nearby to the Chantry, within which is housed the Ambassador’s office. They’re practically next door, actually, and so he finds himself within the building in mere moments.

His arrival draws suspicious glances, ill-disguised murmurs from throughout the Chantry’s main hall. He ignores them – these Chantry folk delight in idle gossip and passing judgements. He used to feel weak, insecure under their scrutiny, but doesn’t worry about them anymore.

_The Inquisition may need you here, but I_ want _you. Here._

That earnest look in Maxwell’s eyes, like he physically _needed_ for Othain to understand him – it was complete honesty and something else, something warm and gentle, and as foreign as that feeling is to the witch, he can’t help but relish it. Hold it close and allow it to warm him in the chilled Frostback winds. He’s beginning to believe in that honesty, that something else – and, what’s more, he’s beginning to think that that moment passed between them was more than Maxwell being friendly.

Still, it would do him no good to dwell on such things like an idle tween –

“Othain, good, you’re here – my, what has got you looking so happy, I wonder?” Leliana asks as the younger man enters Josephine’s office. Minaeve and her scribe, at the diplomat’s subtle insistence, vacate the stone chamber.

Othain realizes, then, that he was grinning like a fool as he made his way to the Chantry; he drops the smile immediately. “I’ve no idea what you mean, Sister Nightengale,” his tone is practiced neutrality. “You said you have need of me?”

“…Yes, I did,” Leliana eyes him curiously, but seems content to let the subject drop. Then, more quietly. “You are familiar with scrying, yes?”

_I see._ “Yes, I am,” he steps further into the room at Leliana’s beckoning, the Spymaster drawing alongside the Ambassador’s heavy wooden desk. It’s an ornate thing, Fereldan-carved oak decorated liberally with religious iconography. Normally, it is stacked high with papers – letters, missives, inquiries, budgets and the like – but all of that has been removed. Now, something sits in the middle of the desk, covered with a dark, heavy cloth.

“Good. I thought so. You see, I’ve come in possession of something – it arrived today. I thought we could test it out,” she says, placing one hand over the obscured object. Othain can tell what it is, covered though it might be. It beckons, swirls with ambient magic and the whispers of Spirits. They are drawn towards it like moths to flame, pressing against the Veil so that they might satisfy their curiosity.

Josephine is present but silent, watching the pair, both wary and curious.

“A seeing stone,” Othain’s voice is just barely a whisper as Leliana withdraws the fabric from over it. The seeing stone is an orb, mounted on a three-pronged base of wrought iron. Dragons wind their way about the base, punched into the iron in stark, detailed relief. The orb itself impossibly black, more so even than night, more so than the Deep, its edges glimmering subtly and there, in its very core, something else. Something glowing, faintly. As he draws nearer to the stone it reacts to his magic, and the room dims. Shadows grow in the corners of the chamber, the candles’ light feeling impossibly faint.

“This one is old,” he says, hand hovering over its surface. Hadria’s seeing stone is a trinket compared to this artifact. “Powerful. A relic of Rivain, if I am not mistaken,” he continues. Leliana nods. “What do you wish to see?”

“I am concerned about the status of Redcliffe, and this Magister,” she says quietly. Josephine looks to her crossly.

“I don’t know if that is wise-” the diplomat says before the Sister cuts her off.

“We _must_ know what is going on there,” she says, “and my agents have been expelled from the city. I will not remain blind to this, Josie. We have no choice.”

Othain looks between the two of them, hand still poised mere fractions of an inch above the polished surface of the Stone.

“Before we proceed,” he begins cautiously, “ _If_ we proceed, you must know. If Alexius possesses a Stone of the same power, he will know we are watching him.” Leliana and Josephine exchange worried, thoughtful looks. “However, I doubt the magister would have such a thing. The magic of Seers’ Stones is rather uncommon, and considered in the more ‘civilized’ circles of magic to be savage, dangerous. He likely does not possess one, but it is a risk you must be aware of.”

“Should we do it?” Josephine asks Leliana. She seems concerned, almost frightened.

The room grows darker.

The Spymaster seems to weigh her options, but only briefly. She is determined, it seems, to make use of the Stone. “Do it, Othain.”

“Very well,” the Witch’s reply is simple as his hand falls on the Stone.

***

An arrow, loosed unknown by a Templar archer in the shadows, pierces Abernache’s face with a sickening, wet crunch.

The man falls to the ground, crumples like a sack of stones, blood spraying in a fan from his punctured skull as he does so. Maxwell’s blade is already in his hand, the Templar felled by a bolt from Varric’s crossbow. Knight-Captain Denam, with whom Abernache had been arguing as they awaited the Lord Seeker, advances on him without hesitation. Maxwell deflects his oncoming swordstroke, arcing up and then, quickly around again bringing the impressive weight of his new greatsword to bear against the man’s shield and smashing it. Denam leaps back, sword swinging wildly, unbalanced and thoughtless, and Maxwell sidesteps. Another great stroke of his blade and he’s within the man’s defenses, rearing back with both arms and striking the helmeted templar with the pommel of his blade. The force of the blow is sufficient to dent his helmet, the man sinking unconscious to the ground, and Maxwell turns his attention to the rest of the room.

Scattered Templar corpses litter the room, having fallen to bolt, staff and blade alike. The Iron Bull took three of their warriors on himself, and he plants his foot on one of the fallen’s chests as he withdraws his war axe.

There are only two Templars left; they sought to take the Inquisition by surprise, but each and every member of their party was on edge the moment they were led to this dimly-lit side chamber. They knew this was an ambush when the Lord Seeker failed to show, and even as the warrior’s shoulders sank with the realization that the situation had gone sideways, they were set in resolution.

The sound of fighting from throughout the Redoubt reaches them still like a mad chorus.

Barris strikes down the other Templar, looking in horror as the man’s helmet rolled off his head to reveal red lyrium. On an instinct Maxwell kneels next to the softly groaning form of Denam, removing his helmet as well.

More of the offending red lyrium sits just beneath the surface of the templar’s skin, small nodes of it littering the man’s skull and trailing down his neck. It makes his skin itch uncomfortably. “You all need to see this,” he calls to his team. “Red lyrium, under the skin. How in the Maker’s name-”

“The red lyrium in Kirkwall turned the Knight-Commander completely into the stuff,” Varric says as he kneels alongside the Herald. “But she never looked like this… _shit_ , are they ingesting the stuff?” The dwarf, perhaps, is the grimmest of the company. Few know the perils of red lyrium better than he, who discovered the foul Idol in the Deep Roads.

“It’s made them uncommonly strong,” Cassandra chips in. “But they seem to have lost their wits.”

“And if these are the ones that were able to meet with us, I can only imagine how badly transformed the rest of them must be, further in,” Vivienne, now. “But we must hurry if we are to save any of the untainted Knights.”

“Right. Leave him be, we’ll collect him later for questioning,” Maxwell says as he stands, gripping the haft of his blade just a bit tighter. “Quickly, now.”

They must get to where they can only guess the brunt of the fighting must be: the Great Hall. The way they came from, the more direct route, is barred; Maxwell winces against the sound of the nobles being slaughtered on the other side, the ring of blade on blade as the Inquisition soldiers try their best to defend their allies. Their only way is through this building. Throwing open the door on the opposite side of the room they’re in, Maxwell encounters two templars. Whatever hope he might have had that they would be allies is dashed as the two draw their swords and _scream_ , advancing clumsily. He is a fury, cutting the two of them down before a single bolt from crossbow or staff can find them.

Barris leads them then, down the hall, through a locked door – thank the Maker Varric is handy with a pick – and into an empty room. “This is the Lord Seeker’s office,” Barris supplies helpfully. “I thought we should check… here.” He paces up to a table where a stack of papers lie, orders to one of his officers.

“He’s talking about ‘preparing the soldiers for what’s to come’. That…” Barris frowns at the parchment in his hands.

“That isn’t good. He was trying to turn the whole Order?” Maxwell wonders aloud. “Why-”

_“Prepare them! Bring them to me!”_ A voice, atmospheric, coming from down the corridor.

“Was that – who was that just now?” Maxwell asks, striding quickly out of the room and looking down the hall.

“I heard no one,” Cassandra says. “Let us make haste, Herald.”

“It came from this way,” Maxwell ignores her, making his way down the dark stone corridor at a jog, almost running. “I think it’s the Lord Seeker!” He can hear the footsteps of his companions following after him, down the hall and up two great flights of steps. A great oaken door ahead – into the open air.

The Redoubt is a veritable maze – barracks, armories, equipment sheds, all the auxiliary structures required to keep such a place functional, they are all nested into the tiered stone complex, cordoned off from each other by various courtyards and portcullises.

They come upon a stables flanking one of these courtyards now – Templar archers are waiting for them. Maxwell feels the wind of an arrow’s passing him by, dampened slightly by Vivienne’s and Solas’ barriers. The two of them are working in tandem to cover their team in defensive magick, and now Maxwell _truly_ wishes they had brought Othain. That is, until he receives his first true look at a Red Templar.

The man – more of a creature, now, nodes of red lyrium erupting from his armor, twisted and defiled flesh and ever-bleeding sores – howls with a voice wretched with pain and hatred, animalistic and blind. Its skin is now grey and riddled, the lyrium clearly sapping the very life of the shell of a templar; it charges them like a beast. Maxwell, planting his feet firmly and then lunging with the blade, plunging it into the creature’s torso and _feeling_ the crystals grating against the blade as it sinks further and further into the violated flesh. The creature continues to howl and curse, the force of its anguish bringing it _further_ along the blade and towards the man. Maxwell flinches out of the way of a wild limb, a sharp and lyrium-encrusted thing that has practically overtaken the templar’s forearm. A moment later the creature subsides, finally, and Maxwell retrieves his blade from the horror. The two archers, posted on the roof of the stable, fell to their mages and their dwarf as he was dealing with the monstrous templar.

“Maker,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, wiping the sweat from his brow. “This is…”

“I know,” Varric says, soft but still determined. “We gotta push on, Sparkles.” The nickname is almost enough to draw him from the horror of their situation, but not quite. Maxwell hoists his blade, not sheathing it for fear that another lyrium-infected creature waits around the next bend.

_“Show me what you are!”_

Maxwell looks up and towards the Great Keep. “There it is again. From there,” he points. “Barris-”

“Right. Let’s go. That way,” Barris nods in the direction of their route, and they’re off again.

Across the courtyard the go, into one of the auxiliary structures, up two flights of stairs. Two more templars, these ones less infected, still wielding blades and their screams almost human. Maxwell tries not to dwell on it as he cuts one down, tries not to think on the scratching vibration along his blade as it rends flesh and lyrium.

“ _You will be so much more!”_ Strangely, the voice sounds closer, louder, despite its atmospheric quality. It’s angry, and demanding, and corrupted like the voices of the Red Templars.

At the top of the stairs, Barris leads them through a door that opens up to the next highest tier of the complex: a broad, crenellated parapet, overlooking the courtyard, leading in the direction of the Great Hall.

More of the templars, these ones engaged in combat with the un-corrupted. _Thank the Maker._ Maxwell draws his blade and looses a deafening war-cry, drawing the attention of the red templars and giving the slightest edge to their foes before he charges.

His blade meets Templar steel with a resounding clang. “Fall back!” he calls to the uncorrupted; catching the red templar’s blade at the cross-guard, he twists his greatsword and sends the weapon flying. Pommel to the chest, forcing the creature to stumble backwards before hacking down and into its shoulder. Rearing back from the howling monstrosity to block another incoming blade just as Barris and Cassandra catch up to him.

“These red templars – they are monstrous!” Cassandra calls with effort as she rebuffs one’s advance – the sharp, crystalline forearm of the creature shatters against her shield and still it advances, rabid and shrieking, clawing with the bleeding stub at her before she strikes it down.

“Put them out of their misery, then!” Vivienne responds and, with a gesture and a crack of glacial magick, puts an archer down.

_“Herald of Andraste – it’s time we became better acquainted!”_ Ever nearer, now taunting, up the broad steps towards one of the tall, flanking towers and through to the other side.

“There it is again - let’s go!” Maxwell shouts, making his way up the steps in leaps and bounds. They’re accompanied now by several of the untainted templars.

He makes his way in and out of the tower, passing through the base floor and onto the broad stone steps that separate the two towers just ahead of the Great Hall. Framed between tall, daunting statuaries, he sees it now – tall and arched, crimson faded with age, the door into the Great Hall and _– there –_ a lone figure. The Lord Seeker?

_“What do you think to accomplish? What will you become?”_

“Maxwell- wait!” He doesn’t pay attention to his companions’ warnings, flagging behind him as he makes his way up the steps in leaps and bounds, every fibre of his being prepared to bring the Lord Seeker to bear for his crimes.

Lord Seeker Lucius stands with his back to the warrior who approaches him. “Lord Seeker!” Maxwell calls, slowing as he arrives at the top platform, mere paces from the man. “You’ve a lot to answer for.”

No response – if the Lord Seeker registers his presence, he makes no indication of it. _No matter._ He strides, aggressive and angry, towards the man and –

The Lord Seeker turns on him when he is but a footstep away, reaching out and grabbing the surprised warrior by the front of his breastplate, _dragging_ him backwards, crashing into the door and – _falling through_ , the great red wood giving way in waves of green and black and then

Nothing.

Inky blackness surrounds Maxwell, and he registers distantly that he is alone.

Maxwell sinks to his knees, feeling suddenly faint as adrenaline crashes through his veins in the dark and silence. “Wh-” He gasps, bracing one hand on the ground for support. His weight holds against some resistance and yet he feels nothing real, no friction, no texture. “Where am I?” he says, quietly and then again, louder. “Where am I?”

“ _Where am I? Questing, searching. Let me show you.”_

Flame, on all sides of him, piercing bluish-white against the darkness. He recognizes this flame; Solas calls it Veilfire. Othain told him that it isn’t real fire, it’s the memory of a flame, found most often in dreams of the Fade.

“Am I…” his voice trails off as he stands and examines more fully the scene before him, now illuminated by several Veilfire sconces. Ahead of him, a broad and empty chamber, stone except the floor. Is that grass? He kneels again, passes his hand through the wispy blades and feels nothing. Stands straight again. This place is almost familiar, just on the edge of his memory but not quite. He turns, and then flinches backwards – behind him was a great wall of red lyrium, almost invisible in the darkness and giving off none of that telltale heat and song that he associates with the corrupt crystal. He turns back towards the room. It’s lined by thick stone columns and then _– are those corpses_? Burnt, petrified, just like those at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Now, at the end, he can make out the hazy dark silhouettes of two figures.

“Hello?” He says, paces forward, reaching for his blade and drawing it slowly. Passing gingerly by the burning corpses, again feeling no heat, smelling no smoke. No breeze or draft disturbs the air of the chamber. _I must be dreaming._

He draws closer to the figures, and a third passes out of shadow and joins the others. He can see now - _is that Leliana? Cullen, Josephine? What-_

_“Is this shape useful?”_ Leliana – not Leliana, judging by the voice, atmospheric and dark like before – says with a devious glint to her expression. “ _Will it let me know you?_ ”

“ _Everything tells me about you,”_ Not-Leliana continues, moving again to stand behind the figure of Cullen, drawing a blade. “ _So will this – watch.”_

Maxwell flinches forward, hands outstretched before reigning in his reaction as the shadow of the Spymaster drags the blade slowly, deliberately, across Cullen’s throat, never breaking its gaze on him. Blood, black in the dark room, spills thick from the slashed throat as Cullen collapses, and Maxwell stifles a cry. _This isn’t Cullen, and certainly isn’t Leliana._

_“This isn’t Cullen. Analyzing, staying calm, but this one’s form is so near-”_

“Are you some kind of demon, then?” Maxwell demands. The figure of Leliana recedes, evaporating into shadow and Josephine steps forward, dagger now at the ready. “Should I scream in terror next?” he spits, angry, defiant.

“ _Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker,”_ the demon says, padding forward in Josephine’s skin. Not-Josephine passes him by, yet when he turns the figure is gone. “ _Do you know what the Inquisition can become? You will see – when I’m done, the Elder One will kill you. And then I will_ be _you.”_ Atmospheric again, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

“What is this Elder One?” Maxwell asks; he won’t step through that door without answers. If this… _creature_ … is in the mood to speak, then he will find out what it knows.

“ _Analyzing, always analyzing. It matters not. The Elder One is between things… mortal once, but no longer. You shall serve him just like everyone else,”_ The voice, now behind him; he whirls around to find the shadow of Josephine there again, grinning smugly. “ _By dying in the right way. Now come.”_

“Keep talking, and I will,” he grimaces, takes a single step towards the door. Then he _feels_ it.

An undercurrent of rage permeates the chamber, passing around and through him. “ _I am not your toy, Herald,”_ Cullen’s voice, distorted still, on his left. “ _I am Envy, and I will know you. Move!”_

Now he’s in another space, next to a broad table, the not-Cullen standing alongside it. Next to him another figure – _Is that me?_ It’s dark, incomplete, the eyes sunken shadows and the edges practically dissolving into darkness, but it’s close enough for him to recognize his face, his own broad shoulders and the armor he wore to Haven, emblazoned with his family crest.

Not-Cullen is behind him now. _“Tell me what you think!”_ the creature hisses, and plunges a blade through Maxwell’s – _not Maxwell’s, not **my** – _chest. The creature grunts in dissatisfaction. Now he’s facing himself, blood seeping from the wound. “ _Tell me what you feel,”_ he recoils, and now there’s something in his grip. A bloodied knife.

Then, in _his_ voice, or something closer:

“ _Tell me what you see.”_

He drops the knife, stumbling backwards and through a door. It slams behind him, and without moving he is facing forward, into a new chamber. This one is more brightly lit, but only barely, still pervaded with smoke and wispy green grass. Despite this he still feels nothing, hears and smells nothing. _This_ room, he recognizes. The dungeon at Haven, in the Chantry where he woke, and yet – he has no recollection of this moment.

In the center of the room is the collapsed figure of his own shadow; arms outstretched, held in place by chains fastened to columns either side of him, and another figure kneels in front of him. _Othain._

_“Ah, this form is so much more useful. You are fond of the Dreamer, yes?”_

Maxwell steps forward, off-balance suddenly, eyes transfixed on the shadow of Othain, barely even paying attention to Envy’s words. Coiling purple smoke erupts from Othain’s hand, snaking its way around his shadow’s form and then into him, Othain grunting with the effort of his ministrations and his own shadow stirring slowly in its unconscious state.

“ _In the hands of my master, his power shall be much, much more.”_ The smoke dissipates and then with a broken cry Othain doubles over, gripping his head, pained and –

“Stop this, demon!” Maxwell calls to the open chamber. “This will earn you nothing.”

“ _This will earn you nothing.”_ The hollow reflection of his voice echoes through the dungeon, now empty. “ _What shall this earn me, then?”_

Othain’s corpse, broken and bloody on the stone floor, and Maxwell can almost feel the blood drain from his face, his heart stop. Flinching forward, he steps towards the body on instinct, Othain’s name already on his lips, when another voice pierces the silence of the chamber.

“That isn’t Othain. The shape is wrong, and you know it.” The voice is low and even, lacking completely the corruption and depth, the many-tiered quality of Envy’s voice. “Broken, battered, broken again. He hurts you so that as you heal, he seeps in just a little more.”

Maxwell stops in his tracks. _Of course._ That isn’t Othain – the figure is wrong, shadowed to hide the missing bits, the seams and the incorrect places.

“Who are you?” Maxwell asks. No response; behind him, another door swings open. “Very well,” he sighs. _Perhaps it was my imagination._ “You want me to play your game, Creature? Do your worst.”

The creature laughs, snide, contemptuous.

Othain is gone, the room empty. Maxwell looks to the opposite wall to find yet another door swinging open lazily.

_“That creature cannot help you, Herald of Andraste, this is **my** place. Let me show you what the Inquisition can become under your – **my** – guidance.”_

Another chamber, this one lit by the warm, orange light of real flames. The War Room in Haven, and Maxwell is bent over the map of Ferelden. _Not Maxwell, not me. A shadow._

“Our reach begins to match my ambition,” Maxwell says. _No, not me. That is not me._ The edges are still wrong, the color still bleeding into the incomplete seams in Envy’s recreation. “But we will strive for more,” the shadow stands from the table, paces over towards Maxwell.

“Is imitating what you can’t have your only pleasure, Demon?” Maxwell bites, hands fisting as he tries to stride confidently past the shade.

” _Accusing… trying to find my weakness. Is that the man you are?”_ Envy’s voice comes from the shade this time, a wicked grin spreading across the creature’s dark features.

“Tell me what your plans are for Othain,” Maxwell says as he makes his way through the chamber, to no response. Another undercurrent of anger; Envy does not like being played. With a crash of stone and a wave of power that washes over the Herald like water, the room expands. On either side of him, prison cells.

“If the Herald has issue with me, let him charge me to my face!” Cassandra’s voice, now. Maxwell looks to his left, to the cell that contains the Seeker. She is worn, battered and bruised, thin and gaunt from hunger. In spite of her defiance, her voice is weak, and the fingers with which she grips the iron bars of the cage are thin from malnutrition.

An Inquisition soldier stands opposite her, spits in her face. “You’re a heretic, ‘Seeker’. An enemy of the Faith. The more of you there are in here, the _better._ ”.

Anger rises like bile in Maxwell’s throat, but that other voice interrupts any reaction he might have made. “You don’t have to watch. Envy’s angry – you’re too bright for him, and he’s punishing you for it. Dimming your light so that he can stand it, then _in_ it, and then steal it.”

It takes quite a bit of his willpower to turn away from the scene laid out for him – away, too, from the other cell in which he can hear Varric’s voice – and to proceed through the chamber.

“Who are you? Some aspect of Envy?” Maxwell asks into the open air. “I won’t fall for your tricks-”

“Wandering, searching, you are the light upon the path, but who will guide your way?” That _voice_ again, and not knowing who, or what, it belongs to is really starting to grate under his skin. “I’m sorry – I want to help, not to hurt. _You_ , not Envy. It’s harder to help, here in the hurting, here in _you_.”

“In me? So – am I dreaming?” Maxwell stops at the end of the corridor. No door awaits him, merely a faceless brick wall. Envy doesn’t intend to let him pass without participating in his games, it seems.

“Yes – no. Not exactly. It’s hard to say,” the voice, closer now, and Maxwell can feel adrenaline blooming in him. “You need a name to put to the voice, make the uncertainty go away.” The voice almost sounds urgent. Then, no longer atmospheric but directly behind him, simple and clear: “I’m Cole.”

“Cole,” Maxwell repeats slowly as he turns to face the creature. “That isn’t quite what I expected.” In fact, he could never have expected it – Cole – to be as it is. A young man, by all accounts, hair the color of straw and dressed in oversized, patchwork clothes, a large hat hanging ponderously over his face.

“This is… not how I help, normally. I’ve never been a _part_ of the hurt before, inside it. But I still want to. Help, that is.”

“Alright, Cole,” Maxwell’s tone is measured. “How exactly can you help?”

“We’re in your head. Don’t you know how to get out?” Cole asks simply.

Maxwell could laugh. _Offer to help, and then ask me how to do it._ “If we’re in my head, I’m not sure I should be getting out at all,” he grumbles.

“Right. In your head, but all of this,” Cole gestures all around, the chamber, all darkened stone brick, flaming sconces, the sound of Cassandra and Varric beating at the bars of a cell. “This is Envy. Being one place, one person, one thing is difficult – too many, and Envy stretches, begins to break. The more you move, the more you force him to stretch.”

“So if I can keep moving, I can tire him into submission?” Maxwell asks, and Cole shrugs. _Shrugs._

“Possibly. It’s… better than waiting to lose your face,” Cole says, and in the next moment he’s gone. Maxwell shakes his head, irritated. _Othain would know what to do here, he loves this shit._

“Othain,” Cole’s voice comes from near the stone wall. “He gave you something, smooth like glass and cool like water. Close to both of your hearts, now.”

_The stone._ Maxwell reaches instinctively to his neck, finding the stone still hanging there. As he touches it, he feels that cascading sense of calm take over him. “But this isn’t the real thing,” Maxwell says. “Why does it-”

“A door, open to the Dreamer but closed to all others. Halfway in and halfway out, a bridge in black and gold. The Dreamer can help you,” Cole’s eyes are wide as if he just realized something. “I must go – two lights, not one – you need to keep your face just a while longer.”

“Wait, what are you-” Maxwell says, but Cole is already gone. What does Othain have to do with all this? “Cole, what do I do?”

“ _That creature cannot help you anymore,”_ Envy hisses and, behind him, a door swings open. “ _You are alone now, Herald of Andraste.”_

***

Othain sinks into his chair, alongside the enchanted hearth. Leliana’s request took a lot out of him, but they learned some valuable information. _Hopefully Maxwell will be back soon, so we can put this to use,_ he thinks as he draws his book to his side from its perch next to the bed.

He flips the heavy tome open, thumbing through the pages until he finds the passage he had been looking at before being… interrupted, the night that Maxwell left. A modern transcription of a much older Tevinter text, a study on the Veil. Leliana procured it so that research could be conducted on the Rifts, and the Herald’s Mark.

Several minutes pass in silence, staring at the text and yet reading none of it. Othain growls his frustration before shutting the book gently. He can’t focus, too restless. He shouldn’t have listened to Maxwell, shouldn’t have bowed to the Seeker’s whims; he should be there, at Therinfal, alongside Maxwell. Who knows what is happening in that secluded, old fortress.

At least he knows the enchantment upon that stone is still holding – he can _feel_ it – and that lets him breath a little easier, secure in the knowledge that Maxwell should still be safe.

Something disturbs his thoughts, a whisper of magic nearby. A shadow on the edge of his perception, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck raise as he summons his magic wordlessly.

“Come out where I can see you, whatever you are,” he snaps, power pooling in the palm of his right hand. “I know you’re there.”

“Sorry,” a young man’s voice, calm and neutral. “I know this isn’t how a person does it.” Now, before him, stands a man in patchwork clothes, blonde and wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. “I’m-”

“A spirit,” Othain interrupts as his magic reacts to the other’s presence. “Outside of the Fade, and yet – manifesting as a young man?” He rises to standing, paces closer to the other. “How odd,” he concludes.

“I was going to say Cole. The other one seemed to care more about my name.”

“You gave yourself a name, then? Odder still.” Othain doesn’t know who this spirit is, or where it came from, or who the _other one_ is. Perhaps Solas? But then –

No, Othain can sense it now. The magic of the Mark, electric like ozone, that clings to the Herald always _._ As if beckoning to him. “You – you’ve come from Maxwell, haven’t you?”

“Yes. He needed help and I heard – I became part of the hearing, inside the hurt, but helpless,” Cole says. “There,” he points to the East. “I couldn’t get Envy out, but you can.”

_Envy._ “An Envy demon?” Now alarm sparks Othain’s adrenaline to life and he grabs the spirit – man – whatever he is – by the shoulder. “Take me to Maxwell. Now.”

“Not here,” Cole says. “Through the other door.”

Othain backs off, looking to the bed, unsure. “I see,” he sighs. “Come on.”

***

_“Get the heretic! Find him!”_ angered cries echo through the broad stone courtyard, voices of Inquisition soldiers punctuated by heavy footfalls and the sliding of steel from sheaths. The Heretic rounds a corner, through one of the infinite portcullises and up a flight of stairs. Anything to get away from them.

He’s been on the run for so long, _impossibly_ long – or perhaps it’s been hours, or even mere moments. Ever since the Herald declared him a Heretic, enemy of the faith, and set his dogs upon him.

There – a shadowed alcove, the hazy junction between a stable and one of the broad stairs leading up to the battlements. A bush of some kind takes up most of the space, but that’s all the better. He needs to get away, to hide from the pursuing soldiers. He runs for it, practically falls into the space, maneuvering behind the bush and then backing up against the wall, sliding down to sitting against it, breathing heavily but suppressing the noise as he gauges the area around him for any trace of sound.

He can feel the blood pumping in his veins, hear his heart thundering in his chest. The fear and adrenaline fueling every desperate heartbeat.

Something smooth and cool falls against his chest, something forgotten. He palms it – a stone, hanging about his neck by a leather cord. As his hand makes contact with the surface of the stone, he feels something pass through and around him, something like clear water or a cool breeze.

_Memory_ , the clarity in murky depths, the light among shadows.

“I – I’m not a Heretic,” he gasps, hand clasping the stone tightly. “ _I’m_ the Herald. Maxwell. Maxwell,” he clings to his name as he does the stone, cherishing this moment of clarity. With every encounter with Envy he’s been drawn deeper and deeper into this – whatever it is, always feeling as if he could gain the upper hand only to be coerced into another room, another scenario, another name. Inquisitor, Herald, Advisor, Soldier, Spy, Traitor – Heretic.

“Where are you, Othain,” he feels his shoulders drop as the question passes into empty space and fades into nothingness. The boy, or creature – Cole? – had said he was bringing Othain, not to lose his face. He clutches the stone harder.

“ _I’ve found the Heretic!”_ that voice, the Inquisition soldier – no, Envy, the foul devil – from only a few paces away. The bush is gone. Where - Maxwell stands again, refusing to let go of the stone and staring down the soldier.

It’s black, the edges are still all wrong, and in its hand is clasped a broadsword.

“ _Die now, for the Herald_ ,” the creature says, lunging forward. Maxwell sidesteps, the blade colliding with a resounding clang upon the stone wall, and kicks the soldier to the ground.

“I am the Herald!” Maxwell practically spits. “You shall not claim me, demon!”

“ _Argh! You will be **mine**.” _A thundering of footfalls behind him. Maxwell turns – a horde of soldiers, dozens of them, marching towards the courtyard where he’s standing. He turns again, either side of him – the stairs are gone, the doors are gone. A dead end.

The soldiers, just as they are about to pass under the portcullis and into the courtyard, draw their blades with a war cry. A singular, guttural, _angry_ shouting, and then –

The portcullis falls shut, the first of the soldiers stopped in its tracks mere inches ahead of the gate. “ _What?!”_

“Maxwell!” the warrior turns – _there_ , brooding cloak and all. _Othain._ The Dreamer is here, standing now in the center of the courtyard. Without thinking, Maxwell crosses the distance between them, almost at a sprint.

Barely stopping short before he runs down the slighter man, his momentum still flinging him against Othain and eliciting a startled _oof_ , pulling him into an energetic embrace and, Maker, this is the first thing he can really _feel_ in this place. He _knows,_ then, that this is the real Othain. He leans back, holding the man at arms’ length so he can really look at him, a broad grin plastered on his face.

“Maker,” he sighs before pulling the off-balance witch into another hug. “Othain, you’re really here.”

The witch huffs a small laugh, hands moving from Maxwell’s shoulders where he’d braced himself against the unexpected hug – more of a tackle, really – to return the embrace. Propriety forgotten in his _joy_ that Maxwell is still himself, still unharmed. Maxwell can feel that joy, feel it permeating the very air of the courtyard, swirling about them like he could feel the undercurrent of rage from the Demon.

“ ** _Dreamer_** _. You shall not claim him! He is mine!”_

Pulled back into the moment, out of their mutual relief, the warrior and the witch separate; the latter, though, holds onto Maxwell’s hand with an iron grip. “Stay with me, Maxwell,” he cautions as he scans their surroundings. In their distraction Envy has rearranged the space; they are back in the basement where Maxwell came from. This time, there is no door out; the stone wall opposite them is featureless.

“You are no longer welcome here, Demon. This is not your place.” Othain leads Maxwell across the chamber, the warrior’s marked hand clasped in his right. With his left, Othain makes a gesture at the empty wall. Maxwell can feel the surge of magic – that isn’t quite right – the surge of _intent_ , and the wall opens and expands outward with a pained howling, a stairwell leading up and out of the basement.

“Come on, Maxwell,” Othain looks to the warrior – eyes clearer now, standing straighter and without fear. Maxwell smiles at him, and he can’t help but grin back, still beyond relieved that he arrived in time to help.

“Right. Lead on, Othain,” Maxwell says, left hand held tightly by Othain and the other clutching the charm at his neck again. Othain notices, grinning fondly, before pulling on him, towards the stairs.

The stairs, inclining steeply, lead directly up from the dark basement chamber. The further the pair climb, the more they can sense the frustration of Envy all around them, his raw and unsubsiding anger swirling around them impotently in the face of the Dreamer’s power. They climb for an almost impossibly long time – so long that Maxwell is on the verge of asking Othain where they’re going just before they reach another door.

Othain doesn’t hesitate to throw it open, leading Maxwell out into yet another courtyard. This one he recognizes, one of the landings of the broad stairs that bisect the Redoubt’s two towers. There – ahead and up a few more stairs, just as he recalls, the high and arched red door of the Great Hall. Othain pulls him in the direction of the door, wordlessly confirming his expectations.

There are two Templars there, swords drawn. Maxwell’s thoughts go immediately to Othain – _what happens if Othain is silenced? Can he be –_

He doesn’t have long to worry before, with a gesture of the Witch’s free hand, the templars dissipate in mist. They never even stopped on their way up towards the top.

“This is the end of Envy,” Othain says as they draw level with the door, at the apex of the great stone stairs. “Here is the boundary between it, and You. All you have to do is go through this door to join the waking world.”

“I… how long has it been? What about the templars?” concern, confusion written across the man’s face.

“It has been… no time at all, probably, for you,” Othain says. “This is the Fade. Time is different here. Faster, much faster. Outside, your companions have yet to even catch up to you. You are falling, right now, taken surprise by Envy. You still have a chance to save your Templars.”

“Right. I guess,” Maxwell sighs. It certainly hasn’t felt that quick to him. “What about you?”

“I am still in Haven,” Othain says. “Your new friend, Cole, found me. When you leave, we both wake up.”

Maxwell nods, turns to face the other man. Folds both of his hands around Othain’s. “I should’ve brought you with me,” he sighs. “I – would it sound weird if I say I missed you?”

Othain huffs a laugh behind his free hand. “No, it would not. I know what you mean. But – you should not keep the others waiting,” he sighs, “as much as I like… this,” withdraws his hand reluctantly. “You need to go.”

Maxwell feels his shoulders fall, his grin fade slowly. “Right. Got this whole mess to clean up.”

“You had best get to it,” Othain says, taking a step back; Maxwell catches his hand again, taking a step forward.

“I’ll be back soon,” his tone is suddenly earnest, urgent, his eyes making a silent promise. Othain feels something coil in his gut as he meets those eyes, something he doesn’t quite recognize, light and bright, airy.

“I hope so,” he sighs. And then, remembering: “Maxwell – when you’re done, get back to Haven as quickly as you can.” Maxwell grins wide, and Othain realizes how that sounds. “Not because I – well, I _do_ want to see you come back soon, but – I have news for you. Leliana and I have a way to free the mages.”

Maxwell nods, finally allowing Othain’s hand to drop. “I will. See you soon, then,” he finishes as he faces the red door, bracing one hand against it tentatively before pushing it open.

***

Sunlight and wind – sensation, real sensation that’s almost too much on his skin as Maxwell returns to the waking world. Reeling, briefly dizzy and disoriented. There’s screaming – a form in front of him, in the periphery of his vision as he catches his balance just ahead of the crimson door.

“Envy,” he hisses, and on instinct he rears back and delivers a vicious kick to the creature, sending it careening into the door, breaking through it and into the Great Hall amid confused and shocked voices. Behind him, Cassandra and Barris are the first to arrive.

Envy is a truly grotesque creature to behold. Ashen-grey skin, impossibly gaunt and gangly where it lays splayed out in the entrance to the Keep. It’s many-limbed, all legs of various lengths and breadths, its horrid, malformed spine and many shoulder blades standing prominently out from its skin. It _screams_ , a broken and high-pitched keening that doesn’t seem to stop, and then it arches its back up, and then out and under itself, arching so that its long hind legs are reared high in the air and its head – what might pass for a head, a gaping and bloody, raw mouth with two eyes that are more akin to sewn wounds sitting at the tapered end of its disgusting and fleshy neck – curving up to meet them.

In another ear-bloodying shriek and an impossible scrambling of its multiple limbs it tears through the Great Hall, making for the balcony at the far end.

“Envy!” Maxwell cast behind him to find the others arriving. “Cassandra, Barris – Envy is escaping. We need to stop it from clearing the balcony!”

They both halt only briefly before deciding that action is more important than explanation in this moment. “Very well, Herald. Templars!” Barris calls into the Great Hall. “Stop that thing! Veil of the Bride!” From somewhere behind him, Maxwell dimly registers a disgusted _Fuck that_ from Bull.

At the same time, Cassandra charges through the room, reaching out with that staticky power of the Seekers and striking Envy as it attempts to pass through the tall aperture and onto the balcony; she succeeds in stunning it, giving the Templars time to make their move. Knights from across the room approach, already lyrium-charged from their previous encounters, planting their great swords into the stone of the Keep as they summon their golden auras. A veil, gossamer-thin of that same grasping energy grows around the edges of the balcony just as the creature attempts to hurl itself over the edge.

It meets the barrier with a shriek, recoiling in agony and limbs wheeling.

Maxwell is already making his way to the creature in leaps and bounds, in no small part fueled by his fresh pain of the Demon’s making.

“The Lord Seeker! Herald!” Barris calls as Maxwell passes him.

“Envy _was_ the Lord Seeker!” the man hardly slows to respond to the templar, greatsword at the ready and itching to rend Demon flesh.

Envy, its hideous and broken voice still piercing the air of the Keep with its screams, rears again as Maxwell passes through the doorway onto the balcony where the Templars have trapped the beast, his company behind him. A hooked and gangly leg poised high in the air, ready to strike when, with a snap of glacial magic and a sudden chill, ice erupts from the ground beneath it to encompass three of its horrible limbs. The Iron Bull practically roars, crashing into the beast and staggering it in place.

A bolt passes the warrior by, embedding itself in the creature’s chest, and then with a sweeping arc of his blade the poised limb is sent flying, bubbling into nothing but a pool of ichor.

“ _I touched… **so much** of you,”_ the creature hisses as Maxwell and Cassandra press the advantage, swiping at them futilely while sustaining heavy damage. “ _But you are selfish with your glory! Now I’m **no one** ” _

“I’ve no sympathy for you, Creature!” Maxwell cries and, with a mighty horizontal sweep of his blade, severs those limbs that were rooted in ice to the stone of the balcony. Maxwell kicks the creature in its ruined chest, splaying it again on its back. This time, he makes sure to plant his blade swiftly and deeply.

The Demon’s grasp on the material world fades alongside its screams, leaving the balcony blanketed in a heavy, stark silence.

Maxwell lets his blade fall flat to the ground, breath heavy, one hand finding its way instinctively to the stone at his neck. _Is it over?_

Cassandra takes a step towards the rapidly fading mound of ichor and Fade residue, examining it curiously. “Are you all right, Herald?” Maxwell looks up at her, face flushed with exertion, fatigue. “That was…”

“Herald!” Barris’ voice. He’s accompanied by several of the Knights-Templar from within the Keep. “Envy is gone, and the Red Templars left alive have fled the keep. That thing made sure we were unprepared,” he says with a heavy sigh as he draws level with the Inquisition party. “There are no more officers left to lead us, and our ranks have taken heavy losses. Still, all would have been lost without the Inquisition’s arrival.” Behind him, the templars form rank and he fully faces the Herald, shoulders square and expression grim. “We stand ready to help in whatever way the Inquisition desires.”

The silence that fills the balcony is oppressive, and in the shadow of the Keep the air is chilled. Maxwell looks behind him, to the West, to where the Breach hangs suspended in the sky. Its corrupt magic visible even from here. Then his gaze moves to Cassandra, questing. Her response is silent, but understood. Somehow, this is his victory, his decision to make.

“As long as the Breach is in the sky, its ruinous magic is our enemy,” he says, voice filled with determination as he returns his gaze to the assembled Templars. “We cannot afford to be divided – neither the Inquisition from the Templars, nor the Templars from the Mages. Put aside your differences and work with us and the Mages, and we will seal the Breach. Perhaps then, you can restore your Order and its honor.”

The silence is now stunned as his words sink in, the implication that the Inquisition shall bring to bear both the Templars and the Mage Rebellion. Still, their reality remains unchanged in the many corpses that litter the keep.

“Templars!” Barris calls, turns to the assembled Knights. “Are you prepared to drop our differences so that we may fulfill our oaths and, with the aid of new alliances, forge anew our Order?”

Maxwell’s breath catches in his throat in anticipation, but not for long. The response from the Knights is swift and unanimous, blades planted once again into the stone of the Keep as they affirm their dedication.

“Herald, we shall gather what Knights remain here, as well as what resources we have, and make our way to Haven. Make sure you are prepared to receive visitors.” Barris, turning back to Maxwell, gives him an assuring half-nod.

After all is said and done Maxwell descends the great stone steps of the keep alongside his companions, all of them feeling quite sober and, above all, fatigued.

“Maxwell, dear, I do hope you know what you are doing,” Vivienne says as they descend the grand steps towards the courtyard, now open.

“There is no guarantee we can acquire the aid of the mages,” Cassandra adds. “I do not understand why-”

“Othain’s found a way to get the mages,” Maxwell stops, turns to his companions, catching Solas’ eye in particular. “Envy, it – it got in my head. Tried to steal my… tried to steal _me,_ ” his voice is suddenly quiet, partly due to the sensitive nature of this information and partly because he is remembering that dark and shadowed place, Envy’s creation in his head. “It was going to do what it did to the Lord Seeker, and Othain – I don’t know how, exactly, but Othain found his way in and stopped the demon. And before he left, he told me something important. That we need to get back to Haven with all haste as soon as we’re done here, because he and Leliana know how to move on the mages.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. “Shit, Feathers,” Varric mutters beneath his breath. Bull growls a similar sentiment.

“That’s… a lot to take in,” Cassandra says, “But that can wait. If it is truly as you say, we must make haste to Haven.”

“Right. Let’s grab some horses,” Maxwell agrees.

***

Maxwell, Solas and Cassandra return to Haven ahead of the rest of their party; it’s decided that Varric, Vivienne and The Iron Bull will remain with those allies of the Inquisition who survived the initial onslaught of the Templars, and help coordinate the movement of Templars out of Therinfal and out West. Vivienne is glad to take the reigns on the situation, stepping easily and with grace into the leadership role. The Herald, the Seeker and the Wanderer are on a suddenly time-sensitive schedule, and so they take a trio of the Order’s fastest mounts and depart with as much haste as can be summoned.

The return journey to the Frostbacks from the hills of the Eastern border of Southron is a much quicker affair. What took them a week by carriage, now only a day and a half as single riders. It’s a good thing, too, that they already dealt with the warring rebels across the Hinterlands, as the roads are now much safer to traverse. Much quicker, too.

Even if they are pressed for time and have freshly maneuvered through a deadly encounter with an Envy demon, Maxwell feels he can let his shoulders relax a little as the brittle yellow-green of Southron rolls away to the verdant landscapes of the Hinterlands and then, ultimately, fades to the white eternally-snowcapped Frostback mountains. It’s been a strange set of circumstances that have led him here, and yet Haven is starting to feel a little more like home with every foray into the chaos of Thedas.

And every time he returns, the sensation that blooms is his chest is a little warmer, the relief just a little bit greater.

When they are within an hour’s ride of the village, Maxwell feels that he is more than ready to be back. _The urgent news can wait. I need a Maker-damned nap-_

Something knocks against his head and he rears back in surprise, his horse stopping abruptly. It didn’t hurt, really, but he puts a hand on his head where it hit and looks around him. “What the-” he calls, and then feels the wind of something’s passing on his left. Ahead of him, having stopped after noticing his abrupt halt, Solas stifles a laugh behind his hand. Turning, he sees a large black raven flying in circles about their little party; the bird turns again and passes him by, cawing raucously.

“Is that…” he asks Solas, and the elf nods, still quelling his amusement. Even the Seeker doesn’t seem annoyed with the bird’s antics. “Othain!” he calls, waving energetically at the shapeshifter.

The shifter lands on a nearby sapling, cawing again with great emphasis, before departing in a great commotion in the direction of Haven.

Maxwell looks after the bird for only a moment, a roguish grin overtaking his face, before he takes the reigns tightly in hand and snaps them. “You’re on, then!” he calls after the long-gone bird, and takes off at a gallop.

“Herald-!” Cassandra calls after him, alarmed and then irate, turning to give a long-suffering look to Solas.

“Come then, Seeker,” Solas allows his good nature to overtake him. He may be no expert rider, yet on a whim he, too, snaps his reigns and prompts his mount into a gallop. “To Haven!”

Maxwell relishes in this pace, in allowing adrenaline to flood his body as the biting wintry air of the mountains hits his face. In the distance he sees the raven and urges his horse to ever greater speed.

_Who knew Othain had it in him to be so cheeky, flying out to us just to peck me in the head and fly off?_

Riding gives him an exhilaration, a _freedom_ , that he’s never truly gotten any other way. In the vast pastures and open fields, on horseback with the wind in his face and his arms flung open to the world is when he is most himself – always has been, ever since he was a kid.

The raven is closer now, flying just a ways ahead of himself; whether he’s gaining on Othain or whether the shape-shifter is content simply to fly overhead doesn’t matter.

He sits a little taller in the saddle, taking his focus away from the gallop just slightly to really take in the rapidly passing countryside of the Frostbacks: in the distance and on his right, white peaks melting in hazy purples and blues into the horizon, sunbeams breaking through the overcast sky to illuminate the sparse stands of evergreens.

On his left, the high ridges of the Frostbacks begin to descend and fall away into a wood of those same evergreens, the sure marker that he’s but a few minutes’ ride from the border of Haven.

Eventually he has to let down on the pace; the journey uphill isn’t easy on his mount and making her go at a gallop isn’t fair. But _there_ – just a little ways ahead – the path passes through a split in the mountainside and then emerges into the Valley of Sacred Ashes, at the base of which lies Haven.

When he passes through that aperture and approaches the front gates, he lets out an ecstatic, hollering whoop that he’s certain will get the attention of more than just the sentries. As the path opens up and passes by the forge, he sees some of the recruits looking on from the training field, Cullen among them, and the front gate to Haven swinging slowly open.

Othain is sitting in front of the gate, at the same place where he normally waits to join their party in the early Frostback mornings, a smile settled on his fair features. He isn’t in his cloak, at the moment, having donned instead a black chemise tucked into trousers made from black Highever-Weave cotton. A gift from Josephine, most likely, who Maxwell knows has invested no small amount of effort into trying to make the mage dress less intimidatingly. The cuffs of those breeches are tucked into black leather boots, and he’s wearing a grey samite sash about his waist.

_He looks taller without the robes,_ Maxwell realizes. He draws alongside the stable, happily dropping from horseback onto solid ground and handing the reigns off to one of the stable hands, a young Fereldan woman who seems only too excited to take the Herald’s horse.

“Herald,” Othain says as the two approach each other. He seems to be visibly reigning in his reaction, relief and something else underneath the surface. _Is Othain... excited to see me?_ “I am glad to see you back safe,” he adds. He’s looking Maxwell up and down, face flushed from his own exertions in the cold Frostback winds.

In response, Maxwell draws him into a great bear-hug, lifting the other man despite his sharp protests. “And here I thought you’d be excited to see me, Othain!” he proclaims just a little too loudly. He laughs as the other starts to struggle against the hug, still not having been replaced on the ground. “What’s with that welcome!”

“I am decidedly _not_ excited to be picked up like a child, you _giant_ , now _put me down!_ ” Othain hisses into his shoulder, partially muffled against the thick wool of Maxwell’s riding jacket.

“Alright, alright,” Maxwell says and sets the mage down on the ground. If Othain was flushed before, now he’s beet red; the Herald can’t recall ever seeing so much color in the other’s complexion and can’t help but chuckle as the witch readjusts. There are more than a few onlookers amused at the sight, rather like a bird whose feathers have just been ruffled. “Really,” Maxwell says in a lower tone. “I’m glad to see you.”

Othain pauses for a moment, squinting at the Herald as if wary of another bear-hug. “You know I am too, Maxwell,” he says, and Maxwell still catches the grin quirking at the corner of his lips, the way Othain’s gaze drifts to the pendant hanging against Maxwell’s collarbone.

The sound of hooves behind him alerts him to the others’ arrival: first Cassandra, followed by Solas.

“How childish, taking off like that,” Cassandra huffs as she dismounts, turning on an unrepentant Maxwell. “And you,” she addresses Othain, “egged him on!”

Othain remains stoic in the face of the Seeker. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he sighs. “But I am afraid you do not have long to rest. We need to meet with Leliana and the others and then perhaps you will have a couple hours before we are off.”

“We?” Cassandra asks, eyebrow quirked.

“I am coming with you, of course,” Othain responds coolly. “Now let us meet with your Spymaster and get on with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually really thrilled to be getting back into writing something I enjoy as much as I enjoy this fic. Anyone who reads this enjoyed the new addition; bear in mind that none of this fic is edited before it's posted, and I'm very much open to constructive criticism! Also, I really appreciate those who comment on the updates. It really helps me to stay motivated as I write the next piece. So thanks!
> 
> Also: I don't know why some sections keep their formatting when I paste the chapter in, and some don't. I don't think it probably bothers anyone lol


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Leliana brief the Herald and the Seeker on their approach for the mages, and the Inquisition agents travel to Redcliffe once more. Alexius does not relinquish his control easily, forcing Maxwell and his companions to confront him. 
> 
> Afterward, a face from Othain's past appears.

Othain can’t help but squirm a little in discomfort as they wait on everyone to make their way to the War Room. He’s never been privy to these meetings, and feels more than a little out of place as the Seeker and Leliana talk in low tones about some other business. Commander Cullen is on his way, having just departed the training field a little after they made their way towards the Chantry, and Ambassador Josephine is wrapping up a meeting with a representative of Orzammar’s mining caste.

They have a sudden need for lyrium beyond what their few ties can get them. According to Josephine, with the Templars brought into the fold they now have the influence necessary to arrange for lyrium trade outside of the Chantry without fear of substantial blowback.

The idea of Haven crawling with the witch-hunters sends chills down Othain’s spine when he thinks about it. The memory of a static shock that sits in the fine hairs of his skin and prompts him to withdraw into himself. He still feels defenseless against Silencing, that gauntleted fist in his side, gasping for air and finding none.

He wipes the thought from his mind and the deepening scowl from his face as he notices Maxwell’s eyes on him. _The templars are necessary for this endeavor, as much as I dislike it._ They _are_ attempting to nullify errant magic that may possibly have been created by a cult of Tevinter mages. The Templars will come in handy, and if Othain had to choose between the Templars and the Venatori, he would keep the former around.

“You alright, Othain?” Maxwell breaks through his thoughts in a low murmur, joining the mage alongside the stone wall and nudging him with his shoulder.

Othain nods. “I should be asking you that,” he doesn’t miss the distant look in Maxwell’s eyes. Even if the man seems rather skilled at hiding his pain, the witch knows that no one survives the sort of ordeal that Maxwell did unscathed. Envy is a particularly vile demon, in his opinion, torturing its victims as it drains every last drop of information from them, every mannerism, until it discards the violated husk and replaces them.

He shudders to think what would have happened if he hadn’t made it in time, or if Cole hadn’t been around.

So he looks Maxwell in the eye as he says that, hoping to communicate silently to the warrior that he isn’t fooled – he _knows_ that Maxwell isn’t alright.

On an impulse Othain reaches slightly to his side towards where Maxwell leans against the wall, finding the other’s hand and squeezing it gently, momentarily. Maxwell’s expression softens, a smile that Othain knows is genuine because he sees it in the man’s bright blue eyes.

The door to the War Room opens with a creaking of old iron hinges, too old, and Othain drops Maxwell’s hand on instinct; the warrior steps forward again towards the War Table, not noticing the searching look of the Spymaster that moves between the two men. Josephine enters, followed by Cullen.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting,” the ambassador says, giving a small bow to those assembled. “Our Commander was drawn into a brief discussion with Lady Korbin,” she explains as she moves to her usual seat on the edge of the War Room, preparing a stack of notes.

“Right. Now, Herald, Cassandra, we’ve made a rather important move regarding the Magister and his Venatori,” Cullen moves the meeting forward. Anticipating the Seeker’s objection, he holds a hand up and continues: “The matter is time-sensitive if everything is to go according to plan, and so the three of us set the plan in motion ahead of your arrival. But I’ll let Leliana and Othain discuss their findings.”

“Thank you, Commander.” Leliana stands from her seat and places her hands alongside the map of Ferelden. “Several days ago, just after you all left for Therinfal, the Magister made a concerning decision to expel all non-mages from Redcliffe, and also managed to route our agents in the area. Given the… peculiar timing of it all, I could not accept the loss of intelligence in the city. I had recently acquired a Seers’ Stone out of Rivain and enlisted the help of our young friend here to keep tabs on the situation in Redcliffe.”

“Since this has already been done, I will ignore the risk you took in using such magic against a Magister,” the Seeker interrupts, displeasure clearly written across her expression. The witch resists the urge to roll his eyes – _as if the Seeker is the authority on magic, here._ “For now. Othain, what did you find?”

“The Magister hasn’t simply evicted the non-mages from Redcliffe,” Othain’s eyes are fixed on the table, deeply uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the Inquisition’s leadership. “Even before then, there was a notable lack of the Arl or his men, and I have determined why. He’s taken control of the Arl – in more ways than one. I saw, in the stone, a prison underneath the Castle where Arl Eamon is held prisoner and _what’s more_ ,” he seeths, his hands on the edge of the table with a tightening grip, “He’s used blood magic to sway the man. Everything he has managed to do, he has because he is using the Arl’s authority.”

“And _this_ is a transgression that the throne of Ferelden cannot ignore,” Leliana continues. “We sent word ahead to Denerim, alerting the King and Queen to the situation, and our plan is this – infiltrate the Castle, confront and neutralize the Magister before whatever force the King sends can reach the castle. That way, we can use our positioning to secure the mages for the Breach, and secure a relationship between the Inquisition and the crown of Ferelden. _Without_ risking a diplomatic incident.”

A brief pause. “All well and good, but _how_ are we getting into the Castle?” Maxwell asks, clearly still processing.

“There is an old way in – underground, a former escape route for the Arl’s family,” Othain says. “Leliana was worried that it would be collapsed, but I found it, too, in my scrying. Intact, and largely unwatched. The only issue…”

“Is that the Magister might be alerted to your presence if you use that route,” Leliana finishes his thought. “The Magister doesn’t keep guards within the tunnel but he has erected wards in the area. And so the Herald shall act as an envoy to distract him while we maneuver our agents into place – with the help of this Dorian that you met in Redcliffe.”

A long beat of silence as the Seeker and the Herald think on the plan.

“I don’t like it,” Cassandra says. “This is too great a risk. We will lose the Herald-”

“That’s why you, Solas and I shall accompany him, Seeker,” Othain’s response is straightforward. “We shall pose as his negotiators and ensure that no harm comes to him while he distracts the Magister.”

“Why don’t we ask what the _Herald_ thinks?” Josephine chimes in tactfully, and the assembled turn to Maxwell. Othain frowns at the stress in the other’s expression, the pain of Therinfal still fresh while the Inquisition prepares to send him into some other hell.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” Maxwell says, then his gaze finds its way to Othain’s, beside him, and the witch could swear he sees some of the tension in his shoulders ease, then. “And I feel better if Othain comes with us.”

“I want the Warden, Blackwall, to accompany the Tevinter with our agents,” Cassandra says. “Sera as well. Even with the witch’s scrying, we cannot be sure the extent of the resistance they will encounter, and we cannot trust the Tevinter.”

“I think Cole should accompany them as well,” Othain adds as Cullen thinks. A beat of silence falls over the room, looks of confusion.

“Cole?” Cassandra asks. “Who-”

“The eyes of the Dreamer, light in the shadow, you see clearly what is obscured to others,” Cole is in the War Room, crouched on the table – not suddenly, but with the odd sensation that he had been there all along. Cassandra flinches backwards, sword drawn. “They… can’t see me,” he says as he turns to Othain. “At least, not always, not like you. They forget.”

_Oh._ “I assumed everyone knew about your help in Therinfal,” Othain says, reaching one hand out for the young man, leading him down and off the table as Maxwell calms Cassandra. Then, a little sheepishly to the others. “Sorry, everyone. Cole is… special. He’s the one who… brought me to Maxwell, to help him in Therinfal.”

Maxwell, having successfully convinced Cassandra to sheath her sword, turns to the mage and the spirit. “You… followed us here? How is it-”

“Yes, but you forgot,” Cole responds. “Like a shadow on the wall, real and also not. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“We’ll work on that,” Othain says. Then, drawing the advisors’ attention back to the subject at hand. “My point is, Cole can be very useful for this sort of… mission, and he wants to help. I suggest you let him.”

Cassandra’s response is near-instant. “Absolutely n-” and yet Leliana manages to intervene.

“Yes, he can help, for now. We shall look into the matter more extensively later. Cole is it-” she continues, only to find the young man gone. “How odd. I could have sworn… Did you see him leave?”

Othain laughs quietly into his fist, understanding now what Cole meant as the young man moves to stand alongside the wall. _Everyone else truly does not notice him. Remarkable._

The Commander clears his throat loudly, attempting to reign in the discussion once again. “Well, as… _peculiar_ as this might be,” he continues, looking around the room to each of the assembled, “I think that’s sensible. You all will need to move quickly – according to the-” he catches himself, looks to Othain. He knows what the commander had been about to say. _According to the witch._ The former Templar is still deeply uncomfortable with his presence in their company. “According to Othain,” he amends, “Ferelden’s forces are already on the move towards Redcliffe.”

“I think we can afford at least two or three hours’ rest,” Othain interjects, earning him a cross, if faintly surprised, look from the Commander. “Maxwell needs it, as does Solas, and the Seeker.”

“It’s alright, Othain, I-” Maxwell begins before Josephine cuts him short.

“Othain is right. This will gain us nothing if Maxwell and Cassandra are too fatigued to defend themselves.” Josephine interrupts the Herald, exchanging some curious sort of expression between herself and the Spymaster that Othain doesn’t place. Then, “do be a dear and escort the Herald to his cabin,” she nods to the young man, who takes Maxwell gently by one elbow and steers him around the table and towards the door before he can protest.

***

“What, you aren’t going to properly escort me?” Maxwell’s mock-protest brings a small grin to Othain’s expression when the when he drops his elbow. The Chantry is bustling, preparations being made for the arrival of the Templars – Othain is certain that the Chanters will be quite pleased to have their witch-hunters back.

Othain huffs a laugh, not pausing on his way towards the Chantry’s great oaken doors. “I shall not be accused of stealing the Herald’s soul – not _today_ ,” he teases, his voice still low. He looks back to ensure that Maxwell is following him out of the wide, cleric-filled pinewood hall and out into the sunlit village.

Maxwell catches up to the other man in just a few long strides. “Not _today_?” he asks. “When, exactly, did you intend to steal my soul?”

“I have not decided yet,” the mage’s response doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m waiting until you least expect it, Herald.”

Drawn alongside the mage, Maxwell sidesteps without warning, colliding side-to-side into Othain with just a little bit more force than he intended; the smaller man stumbles off toward the side, nearly careening into an approaching Chanter before righting himself and shooting Maxwell a withering look.

“I told you to call me Maxwell,” the warrior says simply, brows raised as if daring Othain to retaliate.

“And I have been,” Othain protests. “But – anyway, come on. According to our Spymaster, I am to put you to bed,” he intends to fluster the warrior, but what he gets instead is another raised brow and a suggestive glance.

“Well then, by all means,” Maxwell says, picking up his pace noticeably. “I’m ready to be bedded.” Othain can feel a flush bloom along his cheeks and down his neck.

“Incorrigible,” he mutters as he follows the Herald who is practically jogging to his cabin. It’s on the opposite side of Haven from the one shared between Othain, Solas and Varric. Othain realizes he hasn’t actually been to the man’s cabin, and –

_No, we certainly are not thinking about that,_ he halts his own thoughts in their tracks. They descend the steps towards the lower tier of the village, following the palisade wall as it curves around to their right and towards Maxwell’s hut. He wills the blush on his face to subside as he follows Maxwell up the few snow-covered steps leading towards and into the cabin.

The cabin is dark and cool after Maxwell’s absence, but even in this state it looks welcoming. The scent of leather hangs in the air; Othain sees a workbench just off the entrance where a saddle sits alongside several jars enclosed in fabric and a variety of tools. Further in, the cabin is furnished simply, in essentially the same manner as Othain’s is. There is a chest of drawers alongside the bed, across which is draped a variety of shirts, undershirts, and even some of the warrior’s mail. The entire cabin sits in familiar disarray, not chaotic but messy enough to feel like a home.

“Well, uh, welcome,” Maxwell says, suddenly a little nervous as he looks around. “I wish I had a fire going-”

Othain strides over to the fireplace as he speaks, lighting it with a gesture and kneeling before it. “There,” he says, turning his head to give Maxwell a confident smirk.

The man huffs a laugh. “Useful trick,” he says. “Now if you could conjure me up a warm bath, _that_ would be impressive.”

“I don’t know if I have the strength,” Othain says with mock drama. He doesn’t know why, fully, but he feels comfortable around the other man in a way that he only does around Solas and, on occasion, with Varric. He’s surprised to find himself joking with the man, if he’s honest, and yet it doesn’t bother him as much as he might have expected.

“What is even the point of being a mage then,” Maxwell teases, walking over the cabinet where his food stores are. “Are you hungry? I’m famished, myself. If only we had the time to go to the Rest before we leave.”

Othain stands back up, warmer now as the enchanted hearth begins to gently heat the cabin. Even in the firelight, much of the interior is still somewhat shadowed; there are a few candles scattered around and he lights those too, looking around with open curiosity.

“No, thank you, Maxwell,” Othain says. “I really should be go-”

“Wait – please don’t,” Maxwell’s voice is surprisingly urgent. He looks up from where he had been examining the saddle on the man’s workbench to find blue eyes on him, and his heart lurches a little when he sees that distant pain in Maxwell’s expression again. “I don’t… want to be alone, right now,” more softly, now. Othain nods, and Maxwell gives him a relieved grin, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

_Should I… ask him about it? He probably does not wish to revisit such pain. I certainly would not._

There’s a beat of silence; Maxwell turns back to the portions of bread, cheese, salted pork that he’s cutting. Othain looks at him still, eyes searching. He paces over closer to the warrior, leaning against the a nearby wall and watching him work. “So you are quite the leatherworker, it seems,” he remarks. It seems he made the right choice – Maxwell’s expression lightens immediately, shoulders relax. “I, uh, noticed the saddle on your workbench,” the raven-haired man supplies unnecessarily. “It is… rather ornate. Beautiful, even. I must admit I am surprised to find someone of noble birth so skilled at such a craft.”

And he isn’t lying; the saddle is truly of fine make, and Maxwell seems to be in the final process of decorating it. It’s been stained with a medley of deep browns and reds, creating a depth and texture that Othain hasn’t really seen accomplished with leather, before, and the edges and trims of the saddle are embossed with a variety of figures and symbols, small enough that one must examine them closely to fully appreciate the level of detail and skill involved in their creation.

“I, uh – thanks, Othain,” Maxwell says, finishing preparing his lunch and turning to look at his workstation. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I enjoy riding. This… started as a hobby, because of that. I’m not much of an _artist_ , or a _craftsman_ , but I do like working with leather.”

Othain scoffs. “Do not discredit your own talents, Maxwell,” he says. “I may not be a noble, but I can recognize quality when I see it.”

Maxwell breathes a small laugh. “I appreciate that.” He moves to the table, drawing up a chair. On instinct, Othain does too, sitting adjacent to the man.

In the spreading warmth of the hearth, the scent of leather grows stronger, and Othain realizes that there’s another scent, masculine, like sweat and hot iron. The cabin smells of the warrior seated next to him, and it’s almost intoxicating.

_Oh no._

Othain quells those thoughts, scrambling for something to distract himself. _I refuse to sit here fantasizing like a maiden,_ he tells himself.

“I want to get to know you better,” Maxwell breaks the silence, much to the mage’s relief. Even if he feels an odd pressure in his chest when the words register with his brain.

A beat of silence as Othain reins in the flush that’s spreading again across his cheekbones. “I, um, would like that,” he responds. _How eloquent._ “And I would like to get to know you better, Maxwell. I do not truthfully know a lot about you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you know the important bits,” the warrior sighs, takes another bite of his pork. “Son and heir-apparent of the Teyrn of Ostwick, big bloke with a sword, stuck with _this_ _thing_ on my hand,” he continues, brandishing the Mark on his left hand. “Not nearly as fascinating as a mysterious, brooding mage from the Brecilian Forest. And a Dreamer, too.”

Othain grimaces at that. “I’m not mysterious,” he grumbles “Or brooding.”

“Sure you are,” Maxwell teases, flashes him a wide grin. “Come on. Tell me something… tell me about…” just then, a curious glint grows in his eye. “Tell me about dreams. You have to have some stories about that, Dreamer.”

“I…” For some reason, Othain can’t refuse the inquisitive look on Maxwell’s face. “Alright, let me – hmm,” Othain hums, thinking. Leans back against the chair, staring into the middle distance. It’s true, he does have stories about dreams, about the Fade. He knows that Maxwell has shown some curiosity on the topic, that the man has had several conversations with Solas about the elf’s journeys in the Fade.

“While dreaming I met a spirit, when I was young, who told me this story,” he begins, eyes trained on the hearth as he recalls. “It – he – was a spirit of Valor, once, many years ago, until he encountered a knight. He was in the Fade, and was drawn to the valor of this warrior so alike to his own. The warrior came from the Ferelden lowlands in pursuit of his love, who had been taken from him, and whose trail led into the forest. The spirit of Valor was drawn to the knight for his impeccable sense of honor, but what intrigued the spirit the most was the knight’s incredible love,” Othain pauses, gaze moving to Maxwell who watches him intently, listening with keen interest.

“Spirits are curious creatures,” Othain continues. “They do not _feel_ emotions, as much as they _represent them_. When a spirit encounters a new, sufficiently powerful feeling, or concept, it changes them. They are very impressionable, in that way, and this spirit of Valor was changed as he watched the knight pursue his love’s kidnappers into the Brecilian Forest, not resting, not eating, braving hosts of unknown danger in his quest.”

“Did the knight save them?” Maxwell asks, voice low.

“The knight came upon a ruined tower, where his enemy had taken his love,” Othain continues, a silent but understood response that he is going to answer that very question. “He fought through a veritable horde of bandits, a lone warrior against twenty men, maybe more. With every fight he sustained new injuries, and yet he pushed on to the very top of the tower, to his final confrontation with the villain. It was a difficult battle – he was fatigued, injured, and his enemy was strong indeed. Yet he was empowered by his love, and prevailed,” Othain says, but his tone is still somber, and Maxwell can sense what is coming. “But his injuries were too great. After saving his love, he succumbed to his wounds; he had given everything he had for his love, to ensure their safety.”

“And this… changed the spirit?” the other man prompts quietly from his spot next to Othain.

“Yes… you see, that was the strongest, most powerful love that the spirit of Valor ever witnessed, and that love came into contact with Valor and changed his nature. He became…” Othain’s gaze returns from the Hearth to Maxwell. “Sacrifice.”

Maxwell exhales slowly. “That’s a really tragic story, Othain,” he sighs. “Was kinda hoping for something happier.”

“You think it’s tragic?” The mage asks softly. Looks down at the wooden table, suddenly bashful. “I think it’s beautiful. The idea of a love that powerful, that _true_.”

“Hm,” Maxwell hums, watching the flush deepen across Othain’s expression. “I think I agree, actually.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Othain says, moving as if to stand up. “You need to sleep. While you can,” he sighs. He isn’t pleased to be sending Maxwell into danger, and particularly with so little time to rest, to recover. “I’m sorry that-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Maxwell interrupts. Understands without his saying. “I want to go. It’s the right thing to do. Just – would you think it childish of me if I ask you to stay here with me? Until we have to go?”

Othain feels that he should say _no, that wouldn’t be appropriate_ , but that distant pain has never truly left Maxwell’s eyes, and it twists in his gut uncomfortably to see. “Alright,” he sighs. “You go to bed. I’ll wake you up when we need to leave.”

The grateful smile that appears on Maxwell’s lips is small, but genuine. He stands from his seat and begins to undo his riding jacket and boots, tossing them onto a nearby bench. Othain is about to protest as Maxwell undoes his belt as well, but the man stops there and collapses onto the bed with a heavy sigh and a protesting wooden frame. Othain is content to sit near the fire, in a chair angled to face the bed. Maxwell must truly be exhausted – in what feels like a span of moments, Othain can hear gentle snoring from the reclined figure, more or less a graceless pile of limbs that didn’t bother to sort itself out.

On a whim, Othain makes his way over to Maxwell’s bedside, kneeling next to the slumbering warrior. _He looks so peaceful_. None of the memory of pain that seems to weigh down his shoulders, now. Othain hopes he won’t have nightmares.

Maxwell shifts slightly, and Othain sees his stone that Maxwell seems to have mounted onto a pendant, and the sight makes that light, effervescent thing stir in his chest again. _Maxwell._ He really has tanned, in the past few weeks, the freckles on his nose and those that dust his cheekbones have grown darker and his complexion taken on a rosier tone. His fiery red hair is still cropped short, and some stubble shadows his jawline; he hasn’t shaved in the past couple of weeks, probably. Having stripped to his trousers and an undershirt, the musculature of his arms and shoulders where they meet his chest is prominent in the shadows cast by the fire.

_Shit._ Othain gets back up, practically scrambles back to his seat by the fire. _This isn’t good._

***

The difference in Redcliffe is palpable before they even make it to the barred front gates; a sickly pallor hangs in the air, wary, tense, fevered. You don’t have to be a mage to notice the difference, but for those sensitive to movement and shifting of mana, it is all the worse. Perched on the back of Maxwell’s horse, Othain thinks he could be sick. The oppressive _wrongness_ of the time-altered rifts can be felt in the very fibres of the Veil here. The Dreamer is particularly sensitive to magick, and he can almost feel the unnatural, unstable power brush up against him, stirring something unpleasant in his gut.

That ingrown instinct to flee makes some small amount of adrenaline grow in his chest, but he quashes it down with difficulty. Instead, he casts a barrier over the Herald, and he can feel the way Maxwell rides a little bit taller as the cool, crisp defensive aura settles over him.

Othain isn’t the only one to notice what’s off, here. “It appears that Dorian was right,” Solas says to Maxwell and Cassandra. “Whatever magic Alexius is tampering with, it is altering the essence of the Veil here.”

“It’s… disgusting.” The witch intones in a low voice, almost hissing.

Maxwell turns in his saddle to look at the mage, concerned. Othain is pale, more so than normal, withdrawn physically into himself a little. 

“Are you alright?” He asks quietly, and Othain nods, swallowing thickly. “Alright. Well, we’re almost there. Your time to shine,” he adds quietly.

As they round the bend towards the gate, Othain turns to those members of their party who _won’t_ be following them – Sera and Blackwall, namely, neither of whom enjoys this plan – and casts a charm over them that causes onlookers to miss their presence. He doesn’t bother using the charm on Cole – most people can’t find the spirit even if they try. 

The Venatori aren’t even making a show of disguising themselves, any longer. Two of their soldiers, big brutes in white ceramic and steel armor, stand watch on the other side of the gate. Their heads are housed in the most curiously designed helmets – almost spherical glittering steel that meets a thick collar at the neck, perforated across where the eyes must be, and with a prominent spike emerging from the forehead of the helmet.

_What is with the Tevinter fascination with spikes?_ Othain scoffs as they draw closer. They’re lucky that there are no Venatori mages posted at the gate who might detect the charm he’s cast.

“Halt!” One of the Venatori brutes commands of them as they approach the gate. “Redcliffe is emptied by order of the Arl. Who goes there?”

“I am the Herald of Andraste, Maxwell Trevelyan. I’ve come to respond to Magister Alexius’ invitation to parlay,” Maxwell pronounces loudly, looking the guard dead in the eye. “These are my attachés – members of the Inquisition. Open the gate and send word to your Lord that we have arrived.”

“I weren’t told to be expectin’ you,” the brute says, looking to the other one. It’s impossible to read his expression with his obscuring helmet. “I say you’ve got no business ‘ere.”

“Let me,” Othain says quietly to Maxwell’s back, and then dismounts. “You would do well to remember your station,” he seethes, voice louder as he approaches the gate. “You are impeding on our business – and by extension, the Magister’s business,” he continues. He draws directly up to the iron grid, the guards unconsciously stepping closer to confront him. They don’t see the way a tendril of magic uncurls from his hand, winding its way about their feet and then behind before jumping up to the level of their heads – it weaves a hex of confusion between the two of them.

“I…” one says slowly, turning to the other. “you know, on – second thought – did we hear they were coming?”

“Yes, I think we did. Right?” the other guard says. Then, scoffing, “ ‘Ey, even if they do go in, it don’t matter! Maybe we’ll get a bonus for-”

“ _Shh!_ ” the first one says emphatically, oblivious to his own volume. “They don’ know that,” he says, then turns back to Othain. “Right, you can come on in,” he struggles to sound official as the hex obscures his thoughts in a fog. Then, again to his companion. “Come on, le’s go raise the damn thing.”

Othain turns back to the Inquisition company to a variety of different expressions. Most of them impressed, tinged with surprise, wariness, or the like. He’s certain Sera and Cassandra didn’t like that one bit. He moves to climb back onto Maxwell’s horse, the warrior chuckling as he does so.

“Remind me not to get into an argument with you,” he remarks quietly, earning an amused snort from the mage.

“Well, that’s easy. Never disagree with me,” Othain says simply, and the Inquisition moves through the front gate and into Redcliffe. As they pass along the ridge above the village, just by the windmill, Blackwall breaks off from the group and makes for the desiccated ruin. He’s followed closely by Sera and Cole.

_Good luck,_ Othain can’t help but think. He knows Cole will hear it, and possibly communicate his well-wishes to the others. He can’t help but huff a quiet laugh to himself at the thought of Sera and Cole having to cooperate.

Where before the town was full-to-bursting, throngs of crows pressed into too small of a space, now it is near empty. In fact, Othain doesn’t spot _any_ of Redcliffe’s villagers, seeing instead only scattered members of the mage rebellion and, mostly, Venatori patrols. They manage their way towards the castle without incident, preceded by a runner who is bringing news of their arrival.

“There are Venatori _everywhere_ ,” Cassandra calls to Maxwell from a few paces away. “The town has changed so much in the matter of a week.”

“Truly,” Solas adds. “This entire village is another Breach waiting to happen, with the Veil in this condition.”

Maxwell chokes down his ire, choosing not to respond. There are too many Venatori eyes and ears on them for the moment, and he prefers to keep their story intact as long as possible. “I only hope they have mages to spare for the Breach,” he says a little more loudly than is strictly necessary.

Othain remains silent, his work already cut out for him. Their path is riddled with clever magical devices of every kind – wards, glyphs, the like. He cannot simply wash his magic over them – no, their success relies on tact and deception, and so the traps must be handled in more nuanced ways. He weaves cages of mana over them, preventing them from being triggered without activating them, working at a rapid pace to keep up with their progress along the bridge that passes high above Redcliffe and towards the castle.

At the entrance to the castle’s courtyard they are stopped again, their horses taken to a nearby stable as they are led up the stone steps towards the castle door – a tall, absurdly broad affair of wood and iron, and Othain doesn’t miss the runes that the are laced into the iron of the great door. An addition after the fifth Blight, most likely, runes that ward against demons and abominations.

The Keep is just as empty as the village, and even more foreboding. The halls and corridors are barely lit by scattered candles, rapidly falling into disrepair as the staff appears to have been dismissed. Keeps such as Redcliffe Castle are great machines, and they require many hands to operate. A handful of Venatori mages and soldiers are not sufficient.

These Venatori are different from those in the village; they are dressed in uniforms of white robes over silver mail, wearing great horned masks under their hoods. They are on edge, poorly disguising their hostility as Maxwell and his companions are led into the throne room by a blonde man, plain in every other way, likely an attendant of the magister.

“You have Peculiar timing, _Herald of Andraste_ ,” the Magister says as they enter the throne room, before his attendant has the opportunity to announce them. The chamber is long, and tall, lined with great oaken pillars that are decorated by lowland carvings. At its end, up a small flight of steps, is the raised platform whereupon sits the Arl’s throne ahead of a roaring fire. The great hearth sits under a tall stone archway flanked by enormous lowland statues, mabari that stand a head taller than Othain. The Magister is seated in the throne, watching down the bridge of his nose as their group approaches. Othain notices Felix and Fiona, too, on either side of the Magister.

“I must wonder why you did not respond to my summons in a more timely manner?” He asks with ill-disguised distaste. _At least he is still willing to participate in this charade for a little while,_ Othain thinks. _We only need stall him for a little longer._

“Magister Alexius,” Maxwell begins, staring the Tevinter down. Othain must commend the man for his confidence, his bravado. “My apologies for keeping you waiting, but I had pressing business of a separate nature to attend. Do forgive our tardiness,” he finishes with a grin. “We are ready to negotiate.”

“Very well, Inquisition,” Alexius grins a wicked, amused grin. _He thinks he is playing us_ , Othain realizes, not allowing his face to betray his thoughts. This situation hangs on a dagger’s edge. “You require mages for the Breach, and I have them. What can you offer me in exchange?”

Othain feels a release of magic nearby, can sense the presence of Cole alongside their agents. It doesn’t take long for the macabre whisper of steel through flesh to reach his ears. Maxwell must have heard it too because his demeanor shifts entirely, grin widening confidently. “Well, I hear these Venatori you’ve joined are very interested in _me_ , Magister, and I would like to know more.”

The color drains from the Magister’s face, but he doesn’t let his smile falter. “I have no idea what you mean,” he says, eyes practically boring a hole between Maxwell’s.

“They know everything, Father,” Felix interjects. Alexius turns sharply to face his son; _now_ his expression drops, sobering instantly.

“Felix, what have you-”

“Your son is concerned for you,” Maxwell steps forward, earnest. “And frankly, I can see why. Isn’t this going too far, Alexius?”

“ _Quiet!_ ” the Magister snaps, standing abruptly. “You think you can turn my son against me?” His demeanor quickly becomes aggressive, tone feverish. “You come here with your stolen mark, a Gift you don’t even _understand_ , and think you’re in control!”

“If you know so much, then enlighten me!” Maxwell is shouting now too, another step towards the Magister. “What is the Mark? What is it for?” Othain can feel magic pooling in the chamber, and alarm begins to mount in his system. He flinches towards Maxwell but says nothing; _Maxwell can handle this_ , he thinks.

“It is a tool of your betters,” Alexius’ voice drips in acid. “ _You_ could not even begin to understand its purpose.”

Felix approaches his father, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder; Alexius shrugs it off. “Listen to yourself,” the younger Alexius snaps. “Do you know what you sound like?”

“ – Like exactly the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be,” from their left flank, past the columns.

“ _Dorian_ ,” the Magister practically hisses as the mage steps out from the shadows. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this – you turned me down.” Then, raising his hands in a grand gesture, “The Elder One has power you would not believe… He will rebuild the Tevinter Imperium from its own ashes!”

“This Elder One,” Maxwell interjects. “Envy mentioned him as well, back in Therinfal. Who is this Elder One? Is he a mage – did he kill the Divine?”

Alexius merely scoffs. “Envy. I cautioned our master against employing such unreliable tools,” he says. “The Elder One will be a God, soon, and he will make the world bow to us once more! We will rule – from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas!”

Fiona gasps, shocked and disbelieving. “You cannot involve my people in this!”

“Alexius, this is exactly the sort of thing you and I discussed _never_ allowing,” Dorian says, drawing closer to the throne.

“Dorian is right, father. Let the southern mages go fight the Breach, and let’s go home,” Felix urges.

“But-”

“Serving this Elder One won’t save your son!” Othain steps forward, interjecting. A beat of silence as the magister whirls on the witch.

“ _Dreamer._ Don’t think I’ve forgotten you,” he hisses, faces growing red with anger. The mana in the room builds, but Othain doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t know how to counter it. “The Elder One will have your power, too, in the end.”

Othain can feel the color drain from his face, ice flooding his veins. _The Elder One will have your power._ He feels all at once disoriented, distant, and he doesn’t even fully register the next thing that is said. _What is that noise… that ringing –_

“Venatori! The Elder One demands this one’s head – leave the Dreamer for-”

“Your Venatori are dead, Alexius!”

More power, mounting, all around him. Othain falls to his knees, still desperately maintaining the barrier over Maxwell even as the foreign magic that Alexius is summoning scrapes against his skin, all-encompassing and _wrong._

And then gone – he looks up just in time to see a swirling green veil of raw power consume Maxwell alongside Dorian before disappearing.

“ _MAXWELL!”_

***

The first thing Maxwell registers is the water – swirling darkness just before he lands arse-first into a nearly knee-deep layer of the stuff. It’s warm, unnaturally warm, and wherever he is, is dark. He groans and sits up as his eyes adjust. There is light down here – very little, ambient and red –

Lyrium. Red lyrium, giving off its telltale heat and sickly-sweet aura that is strong enough to call to non-mages and the uninitiated.

There’s another voice. It takes him a moment to realize it’s Dorian, just before the man in question suspends a sparkling white magelight in the air of… _a prison cell?_

“Dorian,” Maxwell groans, standing up out of the water – he isn’t going to think about how filthy he is now. _Where is my sword? There_ – deposited unceremoniously in the murky water, but glinting in the magelight. He grabs it by the hilt, turning to address the Tevinter as he does so. “What just – _where are we_?”

“Interesting question,” Dorian says as he casts about the cell, examining their surroundings with fascination. “A good one, too. Displacement – certainly not what Alexius intended but then – _ah,_ it isn’t a question of _where_ , my good man, but _when_!”

_When. As in Time magic._ “Shit,” Maxwell expels a tired breath. _Focus. Not time to freak out._ “We have to get out of here – can we get back?”

“Possibly. If I can get my hands on that amulet Alexius was holding, then maybe. First, I say-”

Dorian falls silent as the sound of footsteps on stone echoes in the dank air of their cell, drawing both of their attention. The basement, prison, wherever they are, is thrown into stark contrast in the white magelight, but he can see a doorway swinging open at the far end of the stone chamber. Without hesitation, he strides up to the metal gate of their cell – it’s old, rusted in the warmth and humidity of the lyrium-and-water-ridden cell. He rears back and kicks at the latch with as much force as he can muster.

With a crashing and the terrible, shrill sound of metal grating against metal, the latch tears open and the door is flung open wide.

“Good man!” He hears Dorian from behind him just as he leaps forward to engage the first of two Venatori to emerge from the doorway, his greatsword more than eager to rend cultist flesh. He bats the stupefied soldier’s sword out of the way, arcing the greatsword back around with surprising agility and cleaving into the collar where his neck meets his shoulder. It bites deep, sending a spray of blood into the air before he kicks the man off his blade.

The second warrior makes to flank him; a bolt of angry flame takes him by surprise, scorching his arm and distracting him long enough for Maxwell to skewer him through the chest. The corpse falls off of his blade, and without hesitation he puts the first, screaming Venatori soldier out of his misery.

“Dorian,” he says as he notices that Othain’s barrier is still shielding him – he can recognize the ozone-tinged, crisp feeling of its magic now – “How is it that Othain’s barrier is still in place?”

The Tevinter approaches, examining him with interest. “The witch seems to have taken a liking to you, Herald, he’s poured quite a bit of power into this barrier.” Then, after a brief pause and a mischievous grin. “I can see why, too. Even a recluse such as he can recognize quality, after all.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Maxwell snaps. Thinking of the other man, his hand travels almost unconsciously to the pendant at his neck. _Still there… good._

“I see…” Dorian almost _tuts_. “He gave you that, did he?” Dorian asks as he moves towards the door. “How surprisingly sentimental. For a hedge witch… perhaps it’s contributing to the barrier.”

Maxwell makes for the doorway as well, moving past it and into a dark stairwell. He chooses not to respond to that comment. He doesn’t dislike Dorian, but the way the man is talking about Othain grates on him.

“We need to focus on figuring out where and when we are,” he says as they make their way up a floor into another stone corridor. This one is dimly lit, but dark enough that Maxwell can see the disgusting red aura of more Red Lyrium crystals protruding from every crevice and corner in the old stone walls. “All this Red Lyrium. Where is it coming from?”

“And what _is_ it, that it can grow out of the walls?” Dorian adds. “Perhaps I don’t want to know. Appalling stuff.”

This dungeon – because it is a veritable dungeon, the more they explore it – is largely deserted and in extreme disrepair, but it is extensive. A maze of corridors, cells and empty stone chambers. Many of the doors and corridors are collapsed, and without knowing where they are going it seems a waste of Dorian’s magic to move the rubble. So they navigate around the blockages, further complicating their movement through the prison.

Maxwell can’t help but think that if Othain were here, this would be much simpler.

They do eventually come upon someone in the darkness. A voice, at first, barely above a whisper. Maxwell doesn’t recognize it at first; the voice has lost much of its power, its authority, now cracked, brown and broken like scorched earth under a desert sun. Cassandra.

“ _The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next._

_For she who trusts in the Maker, Fire is her Water.”_

She recites the Canticle of Light. Transfigurations 10, the verse of Redemption, holding the scripture close to her heart as her only sanctuary. Following her voice, they come upon a blocked doorway. This one, Dorian clears. Cassandra halts her chanting at the sound of stone and rubble shifting just beyond her cell.

“Who goes there?” She stands, braces her hands against the iron bars and peers into the darkened stone chamber.

“Cassandra,” Maxwell breathes, relief flooding his system for only a moment. _At least she’s alive –_ before he sees the condition she’s in. She is pale, her skin now taken on a sicky grey tone. At the collar of her armor, Maxwell notices thick, prominent black veins standing against the skin. Immediately the relief is gone and replaced by dread. “You-”

“You’ve returned,” she sounds almost breathless. “How can-” Eyes downcast, voice quieter, now. “Maker forgive me, I failed you, I failed everyone.” Then, backing away from the cell door. “The end must truly be upon is if the Dead return to life.”

“I’m not dead, Cassandra,” Maxwell says, motions to Dorian to handle the lock. With some flame magic and a strike with the blunt end of his staff, the lock snaps.

“Alexius sent us through a Rift in time,” Dorian says as he works. “ _There –_ now. What is the date? It’s quite important.”

“Harvestmere,” Cassandra says. “9:42 Dragon. It’s been-”

“We’ve missed an entire year,” Dorian says. “We need that amulet. Where is the Magister?”

“To the best of my knowledge, Alexius spends his time locked away in the throne room,” Cassandra responds with difficulty, as if every action, every thought is laborious for her. She makes to walk out of the cell, stumbles. Maxwell flinches forward to catch her, but she catches one arm on the bars of her cell. “Do not concern yourself, Herald,” she says.

“You’re-” Maxwell can see better now that she’s closer. The sort of sickness that clings to the Seeker. More of those black veins stand out on her hands, one of them encroaching on her temple “Is there anything we can do?”

“No. I will be with the Maker, soon,” she responds heavily. Still, she stands straight and moves to collect her discarded sword on the far side of the chamber. “Come,” she says. “The others are here, I believe. We must find them if we are to confront Alexius.”

_The others are here._ Maxwell’s heart jumps a little.

“Why does Alexius bother to keep you all here, I wonder?” Dorian asks as Cassandra leads them from the chamber.

“He is paranoid,” Cassandra turns up a flight of stairs, never stopping. “He tortured us for information about the Mark, about _you_ , Maxwell. He seemed under the impression that you stole the Mark intentionally – nonsense, of course. Here-” They make their way onto a new floor and then descend again, down into a different wing of the dungeon. Into yet another cluster of cells.

“Cassandra?” Solas sounds as collected as ever. As they come more fully into view, Maxwell sees the elf’s eyes widen. “ _Herald._ Dorian – how – we watched you die…”

“ _No!”_ the cry comes from the adjacent cell, accompanied by a crashing against the iron bars. “ _No._ You can’t be here, you’re dead, and _they don’t come back!_ ”. Sera, hair and eyes wild, gripping the iron bars with tight fists. Maxwell can see from here that she’s infected with Red Lyrium, the stuff sitting just under her skin and beginning to emerge from sores in her arms and hands.

“Alexius sent us forward in time,” Maxwell says as Dorian gets to work on the locks. “We need to find him-”

“Find his amulet, and obviate the events of the past year,” Solas concludes, understanding quickly. “Herald, you must know. The Elder One, Alexius’ master, is more powerful than we could ever have foreseen. He assassinated Empress Celene, and in the ensuing chaos invaded Orlais. He commands an army of demons, the likes of which the world has never seen.” A deep breath, then solemnly: “When you defeat Alexius, you must be prepared.”

Maxwell lets out a long sigh. “One thing at a time,” he mutters. Dorian finishes releasing Solas and moves to Sera’s cell.

“ _Leave me alone!”_ she yells, backs away from the gate. “I don’t want nothin’ to do with the dead.” So much pain – Maxwell’s heart lurches at the desperate, bleeding tone in her voice.

“Sera, we’re going Magister hunting,” he says softly, approaching the cell. “We need your help, one more time. Wanna go stick some baddies?”

A long silence. Sera’s eyes move to a chest in the far corner, against which her bow leans. “The day you died,” she says quietly, almost a whisper. “I ran out of arrows makin’ ‘em pay. Then it didn’t matter anymore. Everything is gone,” she falls silent for a moment, looks down at her lyrium-riddled hands. “Or red. So… yeah, I’ll help – I just want them to **_hurt_** , one more time.”

Maxwell doesn’t have an answer for that, as Dorian melts the lock on her cell. “Come,” Cassandra says.

“Where is Blackwall?” Maxwell says, looking around. “In another cell?”

“No,” Solas replies. The others are silent. “The Red Lyrium claimed him. He’s gone.”

“I-” Maxwell doesn’t know what to say, speechless again. Words fall short of the aching in his chest, the tears that he holds back. Everything is _too much._ His hand moves to the sigil at his neck. “What of Othain?” he asks so quietly that he worries no one hears. Perhaps he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Othain is… here,” Solas says, and Maxwell sees true pain light in the elf’s eyes. “I cannot speak of it. You will see.”

And with that, the Wanderer turns and makes his way from the room, followed in silence by the Seeker and the Red Jenny. Dorian and Maxwell exchange a glance, bordering on panic, before following. Maxwell keeps his grip on the stone for just a little longer, tightening his fist about the sigil and feeling its cooling magic. He focuses on that sensation, so that he doesn’t have to think about what’s to come.

If Othain’s fate truly is so painful that the elf refuses to speak of it, then Maxwell doesn’t know if he can bare it.

This is worse than Therinfal – much worse. In Envy’s foggy realm of dreams and machination, nothing was real. Maxwell could bear the pain, terrible as it was, as long as he could tell himself it wasn’t real. Could almost bear the bloody and broken shapes of his comrades, his friends, of Othain, as long as he knew it wasn’t real.

This is no illusion. If he does not succeed here, doesn’t return and stop Alexius, then all of this _is_ real. He shrinks in on himself, unconsciously making himself small as he follows the broken and bleeding husks of his companions. A march of the dead through the collapsed and corrupted halls of Redcliffe’s dungeon.

“Maxwell,” Dorian says gently as they make their way up yet another stairwell. The dungeon is almost hot – warmed throughout by the Red Lyrium that clings to every damp stone and arch. “This will not happen. We will stop it.”

The Herald nods, numb, as they emerge out into a chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling and a trench encircling it. At the opposite end is a drawbridge, on which stands a handful of Venatori guards.

Instantly he sees red, drawing his blade and charging. There’s an archer – he goes for that one first, cleaving through the man’s leather armor and cutting down to the bone before he can loose his knocked arrow. “Sera!” he calls, drawing her attention to the full quiver of arrows. He then turns to his next nearest opponent, deflecting the oncoming blow of an axe with enough force to send the weapon flying from their grip. He strikes the man in the face with the pommel of his sword, feeling the cartilage and bone there buckle under the strength of the blow before kicking them into the deep trench. They had a mage, already felled by Dorian and Solas, and another warrior that Cassandra dealt with. He examines the scene as the Seeker withdraws her sword from the soldier’s chest.

“That felt good,” the Seeker says. “Now let’s move.” Sera move to collect the quiver from the still-bleeding archer with a quiet _ugh._

They make their way through the dungeon, fighting scattered Venatori as they go. Maxwell doesn’t think about what’s to come, numbs his mind to all except their mission. That’s his only way to cope in this moment – _don’t think, just fight. Parry, repost, pommel strike, downward cleave._ Before long they emerge from the dungeon into the castle’s original basement level, the structure’s transitioning from damp stone, practically unlit, to the red brick of the castle interior truly illuminated by ensconced torches.

Still, the basement is in no better condition. There are splintered beams and furniture everywhere, flaking paint and crumbling bricks. Red Lyrium clings _still_ to the walls, and it turns Maxwell’s stomach as they pass by a large node of the offensive stuff.

“This is not the castle proper,” Cassandra says; at least she seems to have an idea of where to go. “And the tunnel is collapsed. We must pass through the rear courtyard. This way.”

Their route through the basement leads them to a great portcullis, an aperture out onto a great subterranean cove. Above the controls hangs a Rift, and Maxwell can feel it calling to the Mark. As soon as they draw near, ichor begins to fall from the Rift in mounds, wraiths rising from the ichor in shifting masses of energy. Cassandra hits a cluster of them with a dispel, Sera and the mages keeping the rest of them distracted while Maxwell reaches out with the Mark, making the connection to the Rift and consuming it hungrily.

Their connection to the Fade severed, the wraiths can no longer maintain their shape in the physical world and collapse in seething mounds of Fade residue.

“ ‘S been too long since anyone closed that shite,” Sera is almost reverent; as close to reverent as she can be. “Take that, Fadey piss’eads.”

“It no longer matters,” Solas interjects. “There is very little distinction between our sky and the Breach, now. You shall see.” 

Maxwell feels a pit in his stomach at those words. With every step he takes through this nightmare, things become more grim. He pushes his fear down – if he is to defeat Alexius and return to his own time, he will need his resolve.

“Let’s get a move on,” he says simply and moves to the winch to open the portcullis.

***

The castle is in truly grim shape – a ruin, almost, haunted by demons and spirits amid a rent sky, soaked in blood and fear and crawling with Red Lyrium. Its desiccated halls, empty chambers and rotting courtyards are patrolled by Venatori who seem to live in fear of the place they defend. Through all this, perhaps the most eerie thing is the sky. The Breach is grown to consume practically the entire sky, extending to the horizons and charging the air they breathe with the scent of ozone and fear. Maxwell could choke on it, the oppressive, foreign feeling that grows in the light of the Breach. It sends shivers down his spine to think on how far gone things have become in a mere year.

This… this changes things. Before, he joined the Inquisition out of a sense of duty. Because it was right, and because he felt that as the bearer of the Mark he had a moral obligation to help. This changes his perspective entirely – now, he sees the stakes he plays against. The invisible hand that the Inquisition combats. This Elder One, whoever he is – is _true_ evil.

They come upon the Great Hall, at length, leaving a trail of corpses and ichor in their wake. They are a fury to behold as they cleave through the halls of the castle, righteous flames of the dead Inquisition. Cold anger burning in their veins, and in none more so than the Herald. There is one barrier remaining between them and the throne room. A tall and foreboding stone door, clearly not a part of the original construction. It’s ancient, and surrounded by a dread aura that they must consciously fight as they approach it. It is oddly shaped and built, a broad circular stone at the top that descends into rectangular sides, carvings of skulls and varied glyphs almost woven into the stone. At its heart is a circular array of rune, some of which are missing.

“This… how did Alexius come by this? How did he even get it here,” Dorian asks incredulously. “A relic of the Elvhen, this. They are sealed by spirits – you need the corresponding runes to open them. I’m not certain we can open it.”

“I can,” Solas says, approaches the door. He lifts his hand, palm up and open, towards the door. With the barest of sighs, a white ball of veilfire appears in his open hand. He presses it into the lock, and the circular system of runes lights up in green; the oppressive aura of the door dissipates as the great stone relic shifts. A seam appears in the previously-smooth rock and it folds in on itself, revealing the empty throne room.

“Alexius,” Maxwell growls as he paces into the room, red anger blooming in his vision. The Magister stands next to the throne, facing the roaring hearth in the otherwise dark room. If he notices the Inquisition, he doesn’t seem to register it. “You’ve go-” he stops dead in his tracks. There is a looming, dark figure next to the Magister that he doesn’t recognize.

As he draws closer, blade at the ready, the mass shifts, and he hears a low, rumbling growl fill the air. It’s an enormous drake, standing larger than the carved statues that flank the hearth. Its hide is black as ebony, and as it stands from where it was hunched over next to Alexius, Maxwell can see clusters of _red lyrium_ protruding from its skin.

“What is-” Maxwell says, locking eyes with the drake. Its eyes are crimson, and pained, but there is an underlying intelligence in its expression.

“Othain,” Solas says softly from behind the Herald. The creature shifts its gaze, looks at the elf, and _growls._ “It seems his mind is not his own,” the elf says to the Herald. “Alexius has used lyrium to take control.”

“Yes, the Dreamer is mine, now,” Alexius says, turning finally from the hearth. “I’m not surprised that you have come. I knew, always, that you would return. Not that it would be now,” he sighs, “but that you would come. My final failure…”

“Release Othain.” Maxwell says bluntly. “Give us the amulet. I will only ask once.”

“I can’t do that, _Herald_ of Andraste,” the Magister spits. “The Elder One promised him to me – his power is the only thing keeping my son alive, fending off the sickness in his dreams.”

“ _Felix_? Felix is alive?” Dorian asks, pushing to the front alongside Maxwell. “Alexius, this is madness! Look at what you’ve done – to the world, to your son!” Dorian takes a step forward and the great Drake growls again, standing up to its full height and taking a step down from the throne’s platform towards the Tevinter. Wings stretching out either side of it, a black canvas that spans the width of the throne room. It bares its fangs, razor-sharp and the length of daggers as it stares down the mage.

Dorian backs away, looking nervously between the drake and Maxwell.

“Othain,” Maxwell says, stepping forward. The drake growls again, but doesn’t move. “Othain, it’s _me._ Maxwell. You know me.”

“ _Get back,_ ” a voice, deep and atmospheric, a breath on the wind, fills the room. “ _You are Nothing, apparition. Fate is cruel, as ever. A twisted dream.”_

Maxwell feels his heart fall – eyes locked with the beast’s – Othain’s – that are so filled with agony.

“The Dreamer will not answer to you, Herald,” Alexius moves to stand in front of the throne. “You and your companions cannot stand against him. Now, _finally_ , I shall have your head. There is no kindness in this world, no salvation for you now. The Elder One comes for us all – for you, for me. Rejoice that I will kill you now, and spare you the cruelty of meeting Him yourself. Now come, Beast, kill the intruders!”

The dragon takes another slow step down the steps, its head drawing level with Maxwell’s as it approaches.

“Othain,” Maxwell cautions again, “You don’t want to do this.”

“Step back, Herald!” Dorian urges. “He-”

“Quiet!” Maxwell snaps at the mage. “I _know_ Othain. He won’t hurt me,” he says more quietly. Reaches for the charm at his neck, locking eyes with the shapeshifter. “You won’t, Othain. You promised to protect me. Remember this?” He withdraws the amulet, holding the sigil high in the air ahead of the drake.

The shapeshifter reels back, long, black neck rearing high into the air and it _roars_. No, it _screams_ in agony, its horrible voice filling the otherwise silent Hall.

“ _Begone, spirit! Do you insist on torturing me thus? I watched you die. You are not real. You **cannot** be real!”_

“I am real, Othain!” Maxwell shouts, taking another step towards the witch. “I’m here. I **will** save you. Help me, Othain. Like you promised.”

The drake falls silent, looms over the warrior. Othain lowers its head, slowly, its fangs mere inches from Maxwell’s outstretched hand. The air is tense, adrenaline tinged with fear pumping through every fibre of Maxwell’s body as the dragon examines first the amulet in his grip, and then him. A deadly silence rings through the hall.

“I said kill him, beast! I **command** it!” Alexius all but roars from behind Othain.

A silence is excruciating, and Maxwell can all but see the agony and conflict in the dragon’s crimson eyes.

“ _I… cannot. I will not”_ A beat of silence.

“Othain-” Maxwell begins, only to be interrupted by a bloom of crimson magic that latches onto the dragon, forcing it to its knees amid agonized cries.

“You are **_mine_** _,_ creature, and you shall do as **I** command!” Alexius roars. Maxwell draws his sword, ready to charge the man –

A bolt of black magic overtakes the crimson tether connecting the Magister to the drake, sending power back along it to Alexius. He gasps, falls to his knees as the magic of the Witch collides with him.

The dragon whirls around, its thick, scaly tail hitting the magister at the midsection and sending him flying several yards, landing just short of the stone wall.

A plume of black smoke erupts from the drake’s feet, encompassing him completely.

From the smoke emerges the witch, weak and on the verge of collapse. Dorian and the others move on the Magister; Maxwell steps forward into Othain’s space, catching the witch against his chest.

“I’m here, Othain. You’re alright,” he says gently.

“Maxwell…” Othain’s voice is quiet, and weak. He’s all but gone, his power largely drained. “How…”

“Don’t worry about that,” Maxwell shushes him. Helps him to stand, but the mage is too weak. He leans heavily against the Herald, his breaths shallow. “What did he do to you,” Maxwell asks, his heart sinking once more.

“Herald,” Dorian says, “I have the amulet. We have to return. _Quickly._ If I had an hour to work out the spell…”

“You don’t have an hour,” Othain hisses, standing on his own and turning to look at the Tevinter. “The Elder One knows you are here. You have to leave. _Now-_ ”

A piercing, monstrous cry pierces the air, and the foundations of the castle shake, sending dust falling from the rafters and the ceiling.

“He is here,” Solas says solemnly. “You are running out of time, Herald. Dorian,” he turns to the altus, “Cast your spell. We shall defend you from the Great Hall.”

“Right. Let’s make this count, then,” Dorian mutters, grabbing the pendant and holding it in the air ahead of him.

“I shall defend the door,” Othain says to the others. “Go to the hall. We cannot stop the Elder One, but we can buy enough time for Maxwell and Dorian to return and stop this.”

Then, turning to Maxwell, he catches the warrior in a hug, burying his face in the man’s shoulder. Maxwell can _feel_ how little strength remains in him, and his heart lurches at the thought. _They’re going to die. Othain is –_ The witch’s voice interrupts his thoughts, quiet but right next to him. “I’m sorry, Maxwell. I wasn’t strong enough. I failed you.”

“Othain-”

“Go,” the witch cuts him short as the others make their way out of the throne room. Releases Maxwell from his arms, backs away slowly. “You have as much time as I have power left in me,” he says, and turns to post himself in front of the door.

Mere minutes pass agonizingly slowly. Maxwell can hear the sound of movement all throughout the castle, Venatori and demons and Maker knows what else converging on the Great Hall. The sounds of combat erupt in the Hall, and Maxwell can make out in painful detail what is happening.

Sera loosing arrows from near the door, cursing every last one of her victims in rage and glee.

Cassandra meeting the Venatori steel for steel, enduring the pain of this last trial. Even that sensation stolen from her by the ichor in her veins.

Solas, resolute, bolstering Cassandra’s defenses while meeting the demons with magic and staff. He sealed the door behind them – he knows that they will not survive this final stand.

Magic is gathering in the air surrounding the platform – Maxwell feels his marked hand begin to throb in the presence of this power, sees the amulet begin to charge and lift into the air just as it did the first time.

The ancient Elvhen door breaks open, rubble that falls to the ground impotently as a demon of Pride rends the enchanted stone. Othain cries out, enraged, a wave of pure, destructive power grabbing ahold of the demon and forcing it to the ground, dismantling its magic. From behind it, a horde of Venatori and demons.

Shades, Terrors, wraiths – Venatori soldiers and mages. Maxwell can see beyond the ruined doorway into the Great Hall where the throngs of enemies are making their way to the Throne room, held at bay only by the terrible power of the Dreamer.

The Witch unleashes wave after wave of raw magic – no longer availing himself of any nuance or skill, only lashing out desperately to keep the horde at bay. Maxwell grips the amulet tight, riveted to the spot and powerless to help as the horde advances, inch by inch, upon the young mage.

Othain turns – a split second – to look at the Herald, and he could swear that he finds a grim smile upon the witch’s expression. Says something, but Maxwell can’t hear it. He doesn’t need to – he knows what Othain said.

_Goodbye._

Maxwell flinches forward, only halted by Dorian on his flank.

“You move, and we all die!” the altus says, desperate, the amulet now resting high in the air and radiating power.

Maxwell watches as the last of Othain’s magic gives out. The final push of magic from his body is weak, his power already spent. He watches as the man stares down the horde that registers that he is now defenseless. He watches as a demon of Terror advances, as its wicked, hooked talon descends on Othain’s frail body – a spray of blood –

With an expulsion of power and a rushing sigh, the Rift in Time enfolds Dorian and the Herald, and all is black once more.

***

_“MAXWELL!”_

Othain advances on the magister, _enraged_ , magic coiling around the man and lifting him high into the air. The man _killed_ Maxwell, and he was powerless to stop it.

No.

He was too _weak_ too stop it. _Useless._

“You-!” he reaches out towards Alexius, feeling the magic tighten and constrict around the man’s body, a black haze surrounding the two of them. He hears voice behind him, in a distant way, but pays them no mind. Alexius _will pay –_

“Othain! Stop!” Two arms encircle him and pull him backwards. He loses his hold on the magister, the man deposited unceremoniously on the stone of the floor. “Othain, listen to me!”

_Maxwell._

“Maxwell?” he asks, turning from the arms that pulled him back, and it _really_ is him. “But-”

He doesn’t get the opportunity to ask as he’s pulled into a fierce hug, practically crushed against the giant of a man. “It’s really you… Thank the Maker. You’re _alive._ ” He hears the man breath next to him, sounding relieved, disbelieving, reverent all at once.

“I – yes, I’m alive, I should be saying that about _you_ ,” he huffs, pulling himself back from the man.

Maxwell looks like he’s been through hell – literally. The man is covered in dust, and ash, and _blood._ His armor and his clothes are waterlogged. “What _happened_ to you?” Othain says, washing his magic over the man and finding that the barrier is still intact, the amulet in place. “You look-”

“Okay, I’ll explain this once more,” Dorian interjects amid the stupefied faces of the throne room. “Alexius sent us forward in time. We’ve been through quite a bit to return and undo his vitriol,” he says. Othain turns to find that Cassandra has apprehended and Silenced the man in question.

“Where is the Arl?” Maxwell asks, separating reluctantly from the raven-haired mage.

“Safe,” this from Cole, nearby without warning. “He is weak from the Magister’s spell, cloying and red under his skin, but alive.”

Maxwell breathes a sigh of relief. “Well, there’s that. Now-”

Before he can continue, the door to the throne room is thrown open, and a contingent of soldiers marches in. They all bear the same uniform – the fur- and leather-lined steel of the Fereldan Guard.

They overtake the room instantly with their presence, those gathered shepherded into the center of the chamber as two other figures enter. A man and a woman, both tall and blonde and regal in bearing.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona!” The man snaps. Othain draws unconsciously alongside Maxwell as the warrior steps to the forefront of the group, where the Grand Enchanter stands. “We’d like to discuss your abuse of our hospitality,” he says, his eyes boring condemnation into the older Orlesian.

“King Alistair – Queen Anora-!” Fiona is at a loss for words, bowing instantly to their authority.

_Anora._ Othain pales, looks more closely at the woman that Fiona identifies as the Queen of Ferelden.

His heart lurches, and he tries his best not to betray his reaction. He takes a step backward, slightly into Maxwell’s shadow.

“When we offered the mages sanctuary, we did not give them the right to drive people from their homes!” the Queen says, her shrewd gaze falling across the scene, analyzing what has happened. “Inquisition, I take it? Where is this Magister we have heard of?”

“Subdued, your Grace,” Maxwell says and gestures to the throne, where Cassandra and two Inquisition soldiers have restrained the man.

“And the Arl?” The King looks anxious, casting about the room for the man. “Is he-”

“The Arl is alright, my liege,” one of the Inquisition soldiers from nearby says. “We recovered him from the dungeons. He has been brought to his chambers to recover.”

The King relaxes visibly at that. “Well, our job is done. It appears we have the Inquisition to thank,” he says to his Queen.

“Your Grace, I can assure you, I never intended for this-” Fiona says to the Queen before being interrupted.

“In light of all that has transpired, your good intentions no longer matter,” she says, and Fiona shrinks back. “You and all of your followers are to leave Ferelden, at _once._ ”

“But where will we go?” Fiona asks. “We have elderly among us, children-!”

Maxwell clears his throat, drawing the attention of the Queen and the former Grand Enchanter. “Pardon me, my lady. If I may?” he asks, attempting to remain formal despite the heavy fatigue that sits on his shoulders. “The Inquisition came here to secure the aid of the mages against the Breach. We still need them.”

“And what are the terms of this arrangement?” Fiona asks, one eyebrow raised. Othain could throttle her for the tone she dares to use against her savior.

“Our terms are this: if you work with us to seal the Breach, and set aside your differences with the Templars long enough to do so, then we are allies,” Maxwell says. Cassandra looks as if she would argue, but she clamps her mouth shut.

“Those are friendlier terms than you will get from us,” Anora adds, her tone clipped. She looks between the Grand Enchanter and the Herald.

“… Very well, Lord Herald,” Fiona says. “We shall join you in Haven. I hope you are prepared.”

_I hope so too,_ Othain can’t help but think.

“Right,” Maxwell sighs. “Go, gather your people and make your way to Haven. Preparations should be underway already.”

“Yes, Lord Herald,” Fiona nods, departs, anxious to be out of the chamber.

There’s a beat of silence before Anora speaks again.

“Herald – Lord Trevelyan, yes? What is that about your neck?”

Maxwell furrows his brow, puzzled. “A gift,” he says. He fishes the stone out from the collar of his shirt, undoing the leather cord and holding the sigil-bearing stone out ahead of him. Othain exchanges a panicked glance with Solas, who seems to understand all at once the younger mage’s anxiety.

“This cannot be,” she says quietly, taking a step towards him and reaching for it. Hesitantly, he hands the stone over. Othain feels his stomach turning in knots. “This is mine,” she says simply. “Or it was mine, a long time ago. My father’s sigil. Where – _Who_ gave you this?”

_No, no, no, don’t tell her –_

Maxwell steps aside, gesturing to the mage next to him. “My… good friend, and ally. I present to you Othain.”

Anora drops the sigil as her gaze moves to meet the panicked look of her younger brother. It falls loudly against the stone floor, the only sound that pierces the air of the throne room in that instant.

“Brother,” she breathes, and Othain sees the King flinch just behind her, eyes widening.

“Did you say brother?” he asks incredulously, stepping forward, and Maxwell turns abruptly to face Othain.

In fact, it seems that _all_ eyes are on him, now.

“Hello, sister,” his voice is quiet, unsure. All the color is drained from his face, his heart pounding; he doesn’t know what to expect from this situation, from his sister who has lived an entire life apart from him.

“You’re… alive,” the words are breathless, unsure. “How…” Without warning she crosses the couple of paces’ distance between them, drawing Othain in front of her and holding him at arms length. She seems to examine him for a breathless moment. “It’s really you,” she mutters. Then, more loudly, realization and conviction blooming across her expression. “It is really you! My baby brother-” She draws him into a quick embrace; Othain thinks he hears her voice crack a little, feels moister against his cheek as he slowly returns the embrace.

“Othain…” Maxwell interjects from next to them, eyeing them as they separate. “You are the Queen’s brother? Does that make you…”

“… Yes, Maxwell,” he responds quietly. “My name is Othain Mac Tir. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

“Hold on-” the King chimes in. “You never said you had a _long lost brother_ , Anora. How-”

“I think we should have this discussion elsewhere,” Anora says, looking around at the rather stupefied crowd. “Please. Herald, if it is quite alright, I would like to borrow Othain for awhile.”

“Maxwell should come,” Othain says quietly. Looking to the Herald, unable to read the expression he finds there. “Please?”

“Alright.” Maxwell turns to his companions. “Go ahead and make for Haven. Let the others know what happened here, and let them know that Othain and I will be delayed.”

Cassandra nods, handing off the Magister to an inquisition soldier and barking a few orders. Sera winks at Othain as she passes by.

“See you later, princey-butt!” she quips before sniggering and making her way out the door.

“Right,” Anora says to the two men before her. “Let’s find somewhere a little more… private.”

“This way,” Alistair says, taking Anora’s hand and leading them through the Great Hall and off along a side-corridor. Before following them, Othain stoops down to pick up the fallen stone, relieved to find it intact. Then he follows Maxwell after the King and Queen of Ferelden.

They come to an empty bed-chamber and as they enter, two guards post themselves at the door.

Othain can’t quell the roiling anxiety as he looks between Maxwell and Anora, both of which can’t stop looking at him. _Maxwell looks like he’s been through hell. I shouldn’t_ _pulled him into this._

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly to Maxwell as they enter the chamber. “I didn’t know how to tell you. Didn’t think it was important, right now.”

“I think I would like a little clarification on how exactly your long-lost brother came to be in the Inquisition,” Alistair says, before he too looks at Othain. “Well, surprise! Looks as if I have a new in-law.”

Anora nudges him in the rib, giving him a sharp look. “Not the time for jokes, Alistair,” she says. “Othain… disappeared from home when he was six. He’d just manifested his magic, and was due to be taken to the Circle,” she continues. “When he disappeared. Father’s knights tracked him to the Brecilian Forest, but never found him. We never heard from my brother again.”

“I was found by a witch,” Othain interjects before Maxwell or Alister can respond. “Her name was Hadria. She raised me, until just over a month and a half ago. That’s when I left the Forest for the first time. I went to Ostagar,” this earns him sharp, inquisitive looks from Alistair and Anora. “Yes, I know your past with the ruin,” he says to the king, “Don’t look at me like that. I went to Ostagar because I was… curious.”

“Othain is a Dreamer,” Maxwell adds, noting the way the dots were not connecting in Anora’s expression. “He likes to visit ruins, battlefields, and watch what happened there.”

“So you watched… the battle of Ostagar?” Alistair says slowly. “Oh, I know who _you_ remind me of.” Another nudge from Anora; Othain decides to glaze over that comment. And he can’t exactly fault Maxwell for telling them that, even if he is a somewhat sensitive with that knowledge.

“Yes, and it was there I met Solas, another mage who convinced me to attend the Conclave. We got there just before the explosion at the Temple, and I helped to save the Herald’s life and helped him to stabilize the Breach. I’ve been with the Inquisition since then.”

“Curious how fate has brought you here,” Anora says. Her eyes hold the same shrewdness that Othain’s do, and Maxwell can see now how they share the same pale complexion and high cheekbones. “I’ve missed you, brother. I missed you for years. What … happens now?”

“Nothing happens now,” Othain snaps. The stress and nerves have drawn his patience thin. “I am glad to have seen you, Anora, I really am. I missed you, all these years, but I’m going to stay with the Inquisition.”

“You do realize this makes you the Heir Presumptive to the throne of Ferelden,” Anora’s tone is suddenly cross.

Othain shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t. Firstly, I’m a mage. Secondly, I was raised by a witch of the wilds. _I_ would be nothing more than a blight on _your_ reputation, sister.”

“He is right,” Alistair says. “The Moot will never accept him. I’m glad you’ve found your brother, love. But he must stay with the Inquisition.”

A long pause. Anora looks between Othain, Alistair and Maxwell. “Right,” she concedes with a sigh. “But you aren’t disappearing for another decade and a half. Promise me you will come to Denerim. Soon.”

Othain feels a little bit of the unease in his stomach uncoil, start to relax. “Alright,” he relents.

“Well, then. Good,” Alistair replies, brows raised and looking between the two Mac Tir siblings. “Now that that’s settled – Anora, we really have to go. Back to Denerim.”

“Right,” she says again. The two move for the door. Maxwell does too, but Othain catches his sleeve. “Farewell, brother,” her expression twists into something bittersweet, and Othain allows himself to relax a little bit. He steps forward, holding his arms out to embrace his sister. It’s brief, again, but the young man allows himself to relax into it. In the back of his mind, something begins to unknot, something that he tied up long ago. He feels that slight pressure behind his eyes of unshed tears.

"Farewell. Travel safely back to Denerim," he says quietly. With that, Alistair leads his Queen from the room.

“Come on,” Maxwell says after they’re gone. Othain’s protests are ignored as the warrior leaves the room, and he falls silent to follow.

***

The journey back to Haven is slow, and silent. Othain still rides with Maxwell, but very few words are exchanged between the two of them.

They could have caught up to their party, with a little extra effort, but neither of them brings it up. Othain wants to talk to the man, but he doesn’t know how.

_Is he hurt? Betrayed? Is it because I didn’t tell him about Anora?_

_Or, more likely, is it about the Magister?_ Again, Othain feels guilty that the man has had so little time to process the chaos of the last few days. The man is clearly in pain, and he can feel the Herald shutting down. His composure breaking down – and every time he sees it he feels an uncomfortable twisting in his chest, guilt and something else that pull sharply at his edges.

When they _do_ arrive in Haven, Othain is determined to speak with the man. He steers the warrior directly to his cabin despite his protests, swinging the cabin door shut and sealing it with a breath of magic.

He turns to find the man standing quietly in the middle of the cabin. Othain huffs an exaggerated sigh and walks further into the room, lighting the hearth and candles simultaneously with a gesture.

“Get out of those wet things, Maxwell, you’re going to catch sick,” Othain says once the flames are lit and the door firmly shut. “Come on, I’m not going to undress you.”

The warrior only huffs a joyless laugh. “Alright,” he says. Othain averts his gaze as the man changes into dry things, hearing another chuckle, wry, from behind him when he does so.

“Are you angry with me?” He asks without turning.

A moment’s pause. “Maybe I should be,” Maxwell says quietly. “But after that mess with the Magister, I don’t think I can be.”

_Right._

“I’m sorry that happened,” Othain sighs. “I never intended… I should have just let you go with the others, but I thought you deserved to be there.”

Maxwell nods at that. “Right. Look, just-”

“No, Maxwell, I’m not letting this go,” Othain insists. “I just saw you-”

“ _No,_ what you saw was nothing,” Maxwell snaps, and Othain whirls on him, prepared to be angry but halting in his tracks when he sees the Herald. Sat on the bed, he’s changed into dry trousers, a tunic lain out across his lap. His bare torso is thrown into stark relief in the shadows cast by the fire, and those same shadows cover his expression. Distant and pained.

A heavy sigh. “I saw the _future_ , Othain. The future where we fail. Where I fail. I watched all of you – Cassandra, Sera, Solas, _you_ – sacrifice yourselves defending _me_ , so that I could come back. I saw – I saw-” his voice cracks, tears that he’s denied himself finally starting to fall. “Alexius-”

“Alexius failed,” Othain interrupts him, pacing without thinking over to the bedside. Kneels before him, brings his hands up to frame Maxwell’s jaw, and the man blinks, focuses again on Othain in front of him. “I’m alright. We’re all alright, thanks to you, Maxwell.”

“You _died_ ,” Maxwell sighs. “And I couldn’t stop it.”

“So did you,” Othain’s response, quiet, stops the Herald in his track. “Look, I can’t pretend to know what you went through in that future. But you’re _here_. We’re both here. I’m thankful for that – you said I died to protect you?”

A shallow nod from the warrior, and Othain sees the shimmer of tears pooling in the corner of his eye. He brushes his thumb across it, wiping away those tears before they can fall. “I would do it again,” he says quietly. “I told you, Maxwell. I will protect you.”

Finally, he sees the warrior crack a smile. It’s small, and not particularly joyful, but it’s _there_.

“I…” Maxwell trails off as he continues to meet the witch’s gaze, the concern there. It isn’t just concern, there’s something else there, something more powerful. It’s captivating, and raw, and Maxwell feels some of the weight lifting from his shoulders the more he looks into Othain’s eyes.

Then, without warning, Othain leans forward and _kisses_ him. It steals the breath from his lungs, but once his brain recognizes what is happening he leans into the kiss, lips that are just as soft as he expected, moving one hand to cup Othain’s jaw and then –

Just as quickly as the kiss began, it’s over. Othain withdraws, eyes wide, heart beating practically out of his chest. _Oh no, no –_

“I – I’m sorry, Maxwell. I shouldn’t have – Forgive me,” he whispers before hurriedly retreating from the cabin.

Maxwell jumps to his feet, already calling after him but to no avail. The second the door is flung open, Othain disappears in a cloud of smoke and a storm of black feathers, soaring high above the skies of Haven and then disappearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I writing too much? Possibly. Self-Isolation has got me spending a lot of time on my computer. Hope the quality of writing isn't suffering from how quickly it was written, but I would love feedback either way! I really enjoy hearing what people think of the fic so far.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition greets its new allies and prepares for the assault on the Breach.

Haven is not equipped for the sudden chaos of the Templars’ and Mages’ arrival.

The Inquisition’s leaders tried their best, of course. Lyrium was sourced, secured with all haste from Orzammar. Space cleared, much of Haven’s housing reassigned in order to maximize the efficiency of their available space. Stocks filled and overfilled. The system of caves and tunnels beneath Haven, leftover from the cult that once inhabited the place, became temporary storage and shelter for much of the Inquisition’s forces and labor.

And they tried, too, to preempt the inevitable conflict between the two factions – previously warring, now bound tangentially to each other through the Inquisition in the uneasiest of peaces. The Mages’ and Templars’ designated camps were established on opposite sides of the town across the valley’s basin. Cullen was appointed as the Inquisition’s liaison to the Templars, Vivienne to the Mages. Their strategy was simple:

Minimize contact.

Clearly delineate the role and the responsibilities of each faction so that there would be no overstepping of boundaries.

And maintain each group’s focus on their goal with consistent preparations – give them a focus for their anxieties and their pent-up energy.

Conflict is still near-immediate as the ranks of each group file into Haven. As luck would have it, the Templars arrive from Therinfal at nearly the same time as the Mages from Redcliffe. While the numbers of the latter remain outside the village, still receiving their assignments, rank upon rank of Templars file towards the bustling hamlet from the northern road. The hazy-purple dusk is settling over the many figures.

Othain watches from alongside Haven’s palisade perimeter, practically melting into the deep shadows of the evergreen forest of the Frostbacks. He eyes the two arriving groups with open curiosity, measures the rising tensions over matters as seemingly simple as who receives priority with shelter assignments, the order in which lyrium and supplies are distributed. He notes with distaste that neither group seems to have brought anything much to meet their own needs. Already their leadership falls into old patterns of dependency.

_Perhaps this adjustment shall not be so smooth as Maxwell envisioned._

Speaking of… the man in question makes his appearance, emerging from the cedar-log gates. Othain feels a twinge of guilt as Maxwell is immediately beset upon by members of both parties – they are eager to make their immediate displeasures known. Othain draws a little bit closer, holding the bundle of elfroot to his chest. Adan tasked him with finding some – the Inquisition’s needs have outstripped what can grow in their immediate vicinity, and recently Othain has been the only one to be able to locate the stuff efficiently.

“… we did not know the number of mages that would be present…” Othain can hear more clearly now, the helmeted brute of a Templar seems to be making demands of the cross-armed Ostwicker. “We require Lyrium if we are to remain vigilant in our duty. Why you would supply the mages is beyond comprehension.”

“They are our allies, as are you,” Maxwell sighs, and Othain can imagine that he’s given this exact explanation multiple times already. “You are not here to keep watch over the mages. This is not a Circle. You are here to deal with the Breach, and the Breach alone. Do you understand-”

“What I understand is-” the templar raises his voice, angry, and Othain can feel that searching power of the man growing restless.

“Do you have nothing better to do?” Othain interrupts, catching himself off-guard even more so than he seems to Maxwell. “You should be working, not whining to the Herald.” Then, before the man can respond, in a tone laced with acid: “After what happened to your brethren, I imagined you Templars would be more eager to please.”

The Templar doesn’t seem to have an answer for that. In fact, unless the witch imagines things, he seems to shrink back a little. A brief silence as Maxwell looks first to Othain, then back to the knight.

“Look, I understand this is all quite a lot,” he says to the man in a tone far gentler than Othain’s. “Let’s just get everyone settled in with a minimum of chaos, and then Cullen can see to your people’s needs,” he adds. Steps in closer to the knight, claps him on the back and sends the man on his way.

“Othain,” Maxwell begins, and the witch takes a step back towards the gate, suddenly very intent on his herbs.

“I – I have to go. Herald,” he says curtly, nods to the other, and makes a rapid escape into the numbers that flood the town. He doesn’t see Maxwell flinch forward after him, arms half-raised and eyes searching, the witch’s name dying half-pronounced on his lips.

Guilt pulls uncomfortably at him as he ducks through the gate, hunched over his bucket of herbs on his way to the apothecary. Yet even his guilt is conflicted, pulling him in two different directions. He knows Maxwell must be beyond stressed; the man hadn’t really had time to recuperate from the twin traumas of Therinfal and Redcliffe before the arrival of both of their new allies, and now he alone seems a bulwark of calm in the village. Othain must admit to being impressed by the man’s resilience, even if he feels a peculiar desire to alleviate the burdens of his symbolic station.

Still, he _kissed_ Maxwell, and it feels simultaneously exhilarating and nauseating. Exhilarating in that rush of instinct and need that momentarily blinded him. A high of adrenaline that had sought release ever since he saw Maxwell disappear into the Rift in Time. His stomach roils with dread as much as in excitement, however. The man had been hurting, he’d been vulnerable and even if in Othain imagined in that small breathless moment that Maxwell returned his kiss, he was still in the wrong. He feels as if he’s taken advantage of one of his very few friends.

Above all, Othain feels frustrated. As if with every step forward, with every obstacle overcome, a new one presents itself. More frustrating still – that obstacle is his own self.

_Perish these inane thoughts,_ he grimaces as he shoves open the apothecary door and makes his way wordlessly to his de facto workstation. Hangs his cloak on the corner of a nearby shelf and undoes the tie on his bundle of herbs.

“Someone’s in a foul mood,” Adan comments at the lack of greeting. “What’s got your robes in a twist this time, boy?”

“Nothing’s wrong with my robes,” he mutters as he begins to lay out the gathered elfroot, a gesture bringing a pail of water floating over to his worktable. He washes and trims, roots for healing potions, stems for infusions and tonics to treat upset stomachs and fevers. Leaves are washed and laid flat for layering into poultices.

He can feel the stress from his scattered thoughts building in the lines of his shoulders, in the way he feels his jaw set and start to grind. Even his magic is restless, his power bubbling and flowing through and around him.

_Did Maxwell really return the kiss?_ That moment was so quick, ephemeral like the ghost of a breeze. Transient like the high of battle. He could easily have imagined that the warrior leant into him, brought his hand up to his jaw –

Othain feels his magic spike, unbidden, and his eyes widen with alarm as the pail ahead of him begins to steam. With sudden urgency he quells his power, quashes that threateningly effervescent sensation and stifles the flush across his cheekbones. He can’t recall the last time he lost control of his power in such a way, even in something so minor.

_This is ridiculous._ _This man is going to be the death of me._ Deep breaths, simple motions – all the better to clear his mind. He remains deliberate and delicate with his work – or he tries to. Another leaf rips in half at the stem and he vents an irritated breath through his nose.

“Right,” he hears Adan, this time from nearer, approaching. “You go rest, do whatever it is you need to do to calm down. I’ve a low enough stock of elfroot without you destroying perfectly good specimens,” he gestures to the door, voice brusque and tone devoid of room to argue.

Lips part slightly, as if to protest, but the young witch seems to decide otherwise. “Very well,” comes his simple response.

_Perhaps I do need to relax. Clear these Damned thoughts._ Othain nods, slow, and retrieves his cloak once more.

***

Othain reclines against the headboard of his bed, still restless but determined to clear his mind with some reading. Varric and Solas, both of whom share the cabin with the young man, sit at the table and converse sporadically. The former is set up with a quill, inkpot and some loose parchment. _Notes,_ the dwarf had said. Collections of his thoughts and observations, presumably for his next work.

Evidently, Varric is a dwarf of many talents. A skilled archer and a clever businessman in addition to an author of no small renown. Othain privately grimaces at the thought that he may well end up a character in one of the man’s serials – as the author of the Tale of the Champion, it’s clear that the man doesn’t mind writing about the people he encounters.

Solas, quiet save the occasional commentary exchanged between himself and the dwarf, fixes the binding on one of his many journals. It occurs to Othain, now, that the two are men of stories, if in different ways. Varric is a wordsmith who revels in the creation and telling of stories; Solas desires to experience them, to enrich is own understanding with the histories and legends of both past and present. They make surprisingly good company, and for a moment Othain feels grateful to have found friends in the Inquisition.

He refuses to think on the other friend he’s made, for now. Those thoughts are too complex, energetic and insistent like a current of strange magic. The young witch doesn’t understand them at all, finds himself bewildered at his own strange fixation.

Instead of dwelling on such things, Othain renews his focus on the book. Something different this time, something less dry – at Varric’s insistence. _Throes of the Tower_ – the dwarf had suggested he would find it educational. A drama, if the cover is anything to go by, a mage apprentice and a warrior in Templar armor standing across the page from each other with a dark and stormy tower in between them.

_I’m not sure what use I can divine from this._ Othain flips open the book.

The story seems to take place from the perspective of one Anthony, a young mage in the Circle of Starkhaven. He is mere days away from his Harrowing, a ritual of which Othain has been made aware by his study of the Chantry’s texts. The young man is not a talented mage, sufficiently skilled to believe he will pass his ritual but not so powerful as to stand apart from his peers. The other personage from the book’s cover is introduced in short form – the Circle’s templars are due a change in leadership – their new Knight Commander arrives from Ferelden.

Othain finds the book very preoccupied with physical descriptions – Anthony is tall and of slender build, with raven hair that frames his face in curls. The new Knight-Commander is a burly, gruff man by the name of Ser Grey. The author describes at length the man’s evident musculature – despite it being covered by his armor.

This book becomes more perplexing by the minute. Why is every character described as exceedingly attractive? Why does the Knight-Commander seem fascinated by this Mage Apprentice who is, by all accounts, unremarkable?

*

_Anthony gave his instructor a dejected look as his latest summoning failed. It resulted in sparks and little more – he prepared for what was certain to be another lecture on adequate preparation._

_“This is absolutely unacceptable, Anthony,” Enchanter Elaine began as she crossed the distance of the summoning circle towards him. “This is your ninth attempt. I know you didn’t adequately charge the water as you were told. I-”_

_“-One moment, Enchanter,” a deep voice like turning gravel broke through the momentum of the Enchanter’s growing lecture. She whirled on the speaker, a sharp word already on the tip of her tongue, but stopped short. Knight-Commander Grey stood on the periphery of the room, watching Anthony with an inexplicable depth. “I would like a moment with the Apprentice,” he said simply, motioned for Anthony to follow him as he turned to leave the study. Anthony couldn’t help but notice the way his well-muscled arm flexed with even that small gesture, how the man’s charcoal-grey eyes seemed fixed on him._

_Elaine huffed, arms folded. “Templars,” she sighed, then turned to her Apprentice. “You’d best do what he says. Tell me after what it is he wanted – between you and me, I’m not sold on our new Knight-Commander just yet.” Then, after a moment of hesitation from the young man: “Well? Go on!”_

_“Yes, ma’am,” Anthony muttered, gathered his books and made haste towards the exit through which Knight-Commander Grey disappeared._

_The Knight-Commander said nothing as the apprentice followed him, eyes trained on the thick neck and the mane of swept-back hair that was a deep brown, dark enough to appear almost black, flecked here and there with strands of red._

_“Knight-Commander-” Anthony began as they ascended another flight of stairs, past the story where the senior mages resided. He wanted to ask where they were going, only to be interrupted by a motion of the older man’s hand._

_“Patience,” the Commander said. At length, they arrived at what Anthony could only surmise was the Knight-Commander’s personal quarters. It was expansive, austere but still fine, kept in immaculate order._

_“Stand there,” the Ser Grey’s voice broke his curious examinations. Anthony looked to find the man pointing to a spot alongside an enormous oaken desk. He did as he was told, suddenly feeling scrutinized by the intense gaze that found itself once again on the Apprentice._

_“H-Here, Ser?” he asked, suddenly sheepish. He could feel a flush deepening down his neck and along his collar, the heat rising to his face as he stood before the Commander, arms crossed instinctively behind his back and doing his best to return the man’s gaze._

_“It’s come to my attention that you are lacking in discipline,” the Commander all but growled, drew closer to Anthony. As he did so, he noticed the man’s hands reaching slowly, deliberately, for the shoulder buckles of his armor. In that same precise manner, eyes locked with Anthony, the templar removed first his left pauldron, and then his right, as he spoke. “And a lack of discipline is unacceptable – I expect as much, if not more of the mages under my protection than I do of my own men.”_

_Anthony swallowed thickly, found the intensity of the Commander’s eyes to be almost too much to meet. Ser Grey’s gauntlets came next, set casually upon the bed nearby._

_“Discipline is the most valuable ethic for a budding mage,” Ser Grey’s eyes never left Anthony, left the mage feeling exposed in a way that was both enervating and enticing. Abruptly, he motioned for the mage to approach, gestured to the buckles on his shoulders and sides to release the chestplate. Anthony did as he was told – sheepish, yet curious – crossing into the older man’s space and reaching for the first of the clasps. He could see, in the gaps of the armor, that the commander wore a thin linen tunic beneath the armor, and he could see the darkened lines of sweat from a day spent in armor._

_A thrill of heat traveled unbidden down his body, and he forced himself to concentrate on the buckles. There was a tension and energy in the silence that hung between them, and it was all that the apprentice could do to complete his task and release the commander from his chestplate. The buckles undone, the commander shrugged out of the plate and motioned for Anthony to lay it, too, upon the bed._

_Once again, Anthony did as he was told, moved over next to the bed, laid the pieces neatly next to the others, turned back -_

_All of a sudden, Anthony found a gloved hand under his jaw, forcing his eyes to meet the other’s. It was simultaneously forceful without being hurtful – deliberate and controlled. “I think you require private study,” the Commander’s voice was quiet strength like a storm rolling in off the ocean. “I will teach you the meaning of discipline – what say you, Apprentice?”_

_A long pause fell between them as Anthony’s thoughts all but halted. Sweat was forming rapidly on his brow, heat grew in the pit of his gut – was the Commander suggesting what he thought the man was suggesting?_

_“I-” Anthony swallowed again, tried to set his shoulders in determination, to meet the man’s eyes. “Yes, Ser-”_

_All at once, there was a resounding smack of a hand across his arse –_

*

The book snaps shut with a resounding force that breaks the relative peace of the cabin’s interior. Solas and Varric look to Othain, face flushed and an inexplicable heat blooming across his cheekbones. After an instant’s silence he turns sharply to the dwarf, expression incredulous and cross. “What in Thedas is this?”

Varric can barely restrain the laughter that threatens to escape his mouth, and Solas watches curiously.

“It’s, uh, a story about drama-” the dwarf begins before Othain interrupts him.

“ _Drama?_ Is this what passes for drama? This is a romance – no, this is refuse – this is an absolute waste of my time!”

“Othain, I think you should calm-”

“No!” Othain drops the book in a flippant gesture, whirling on the chortling rogue. “What did you think was going to be ‘educational’ about this?”

Varric hums, suddenly averting his gaze, a mischievous grin still playing across his features. “Well, you and Maxwell…”

“Maxwell and I _what,_ ” Othain challenges him, and Varric could swear that the chamber becomes just a little darker, a little colder.

The dwarf throws his arms up in mock defense, standing from his seat. “All I’m saying is, people saw a shirtless Maxwell come running from his cabin the other day chasing after a bunch of Ravens, and it looks like-”

“Silence,” Othain cuts him off, standing to go fetch some water from the basin. “Whatever fool notion you’ve got in your head, forget it.”

Now Varric truly cannot restrain his laughter, ignoring entirely the abrupt glare from the young witch.

“Alright, alright!” he says in what Othain knows to be his peace-keeping tone. It’s the tone he uses to manage the Seeker when she grows irate with him. “Hey-” he pivots skillfully, looking between the two mages, “We’re all getting together at the Rest in a bit. Gonna grab some drinks and relax before the big day. You two should join us!”

Othain and Solas exchange reticent looks. _Please say no,_ Othin pleads silently with the other, and he grimaces as he sees a slight grin quirk at the corner of Solas’ lips.

“I might join you briefly,” the elf concedes, and with that small victory the dwarf looks to Othain expectantly.

_He expects that if Solas comes then I shall not refuse. Let him be disappointed,_ Othain crosses his arms. “No, thank you, I am no longer in the mood,” he says and nods to the discarded novel at the foot of his bed.

Varric gives a quiet _hmph_ , thinks a moment, and then an exaggerated shrug. “Have it your way,” he sighs. “You ready, Chuckles?”

Chuckles – Solas, who finds the nickname as amusing as Othain finds his own – rolls his eyes. _Should have refused. You gambled and lost, my friend._ “Very well, then let us go.”

Othain collapses back onto his bed as he hears the door shut, and a little knot of guilt forms quickly in his throat. Perhaps he should go – Solas is going, after all.

Maxwell will be there, presumably. Othain can’t help the instinct to avoid the man. He doesn’t want yet another difficult conversation, more explanations, more awkwardness.

They will seal the Breach, soon, and his responsibilities here will be complete. That _is_ what he set out to do – help to seal the Breach in the Veil. Once this is done, what then?

Presumably, he leaves.

There are complicating factors. This Elder One – of whom the Inquisition has heard not once, but twice. Some invisible hand behind the corruption of the Templars as well as the former magister’s machinations. Most damningly, it seems this being is behind the explosion that killed the Divine, as well. It isn’t exactly what Othain signed up for – isn’t what anyone signed up for, really. The Inquisition will likely turn its focus to the Elder One once the Breach is closed, Maxwell included. Perhaps Solas may even join them.

Othain can feel his magic curl and coil uncomfortably around him, his conflicted thoughts unconsciously disturbing the ambient pool of mana. The enchanted flames of the hearth flicker and cast dark shadows.

The witch stands to discard his tunic before collapsing once more into the bed in his breeches and an undershirt. Slumps against his pillow and eyes the discarded book with a scrunched nose. _I cannot believe Varric would suggest such a thing for me to read. Likely his idea of a joke. How crude._

Othain stares up and past the rafters into the deepening shadows of the cabin’s ceiling; restless and tired simultaneously yet unable to sleep. His fatigue plays at the periphery of his vision, a haze that refuses to overtake him. He vents a low growl of frustration before sitting back up. _Tea will help._

He withdraws a pitcher of water for the kettle, allowing it to warm over the enchanted flame as he prepares a tea to help him sleep. Elfroot stem, dried lavender, a single dawn lotus. Solas has some tea cakes, something that Josephine gave him, buttery and crumbly things with winter berries in them. Othain snags one and places it next to the mug that awaits his tea.

The peripheral spark of magic – a ward alerting him to someone approaching the cabin – hardly registers in his mind before he hears the cabin door open. “Are you-” he begins, expecting Solas, but then he notices the magic of the Mark and he snaps his jaw shut, turning to find Maxwell standing in the entry looking unamused.

“Herald,” he breathes, looking around for his cloak, suddenly feeling underdressed.

“I told you,” the man’s tone is flat, irritable – its stark difference with his normal manner is almost alarming. “Don’t call me Herald. Call me Maxwell. I’m not doing this shit again, Othain.”

The witch purses his lips and turns back to his tea. “I know not what you mean.” He says as he grabs the now-steaming kettle and pours the water into his teapot. “Should you not be meeting the others?”

“Don’t pretend. It’s beneath you. You’re ignoring me again – though Maker knows why,” Maxwell says. “The fuck did I do wrong this time?” Othain’s stomach turns uncomfortably at the exasperation in Maxwell’s tone.

“You did noth-”

“Then why’d you run?” Maxwell knows the ways in which the witch will respond, and is prepared to disarm him of his normal tactics.

Othain refuses to turn around. Maxwell seems disinclined to approach any closer, leaning coolly against the far wall of the entry.

The silence stretches and deepens in the shadows of the hearth. Othain watches his tea steep and darken, trying to formulate a response, failing, and all the while uncomfortably aware of the lengthening quiet.

“Don’t ignore me,” Maxwell says, more quietly this time. “That isn’t f-”

“I am not ignoring you,” he insists, shaking his head. “I am thinking.”

Another silent moment – Othain knows that, while his thoughts are far from collected, he needs to speak.

“I should not have kissed you,” Othain turns reluctantly to face Maxwell. He doesn’t want to see the way the man’s face falls when he says that, but he knows he can’t have this conversation with his tea. Still, he rushes to explain himself before those words can settle – become too real. “It was – you were hurting, and it was thoughtless of me, and – it was not the right time. I am sorry.”

It isn’t as if he _didn’t_ want to kiss Maxwell, after all – even he can recognize that.

“So you ran away and decided to ignore me?” Some slight bitterness colors the man’s tone. Othain clutches the mug between his hands and focuses on its comforting warmth.

He sighs, averts his gaze. “I did not know what to do. I did not mean to offend,” he says.

Now Maxwell pushes off from the wall, enters more fully into the space. “I thought I made this clear last time,” he speaks in a low, deliberate and slow tone that stirs something in Othain’s chest, deep and timbred. “So perhaps I need to be more direct.” He stands now deliberately before the other man, and Othain watches his approach with mounting nerves – a strange, unsettled sort of anticipation.

He has no idea what the other man intends until he feels a gentle touch under his jaw. It prompts him to lift his chin just slightly, met promptly by the warrior’s lips on his own, kissing him in a way that was deep, earnest, and still too short. Without knowing, Othain lifts onto his toes, standing taller and instinctively angling his head so that he can meet the kiss in kind.

In the resounding silence of the cabin, disturbed only by the rustling of the fire in the hearth, Othain can hear the shuddering, relieved breath that escapes Maxwell’s lips as they part, and he can practically _feel_ the way the man grins against his lips.

“Are you… was that alright?”

“I, uh..” comes the raven-haired man’s eloquent response. “It was. Better than alright.”

“Good,” then, quietly: “Please don’t run off.” He lets out a shaky laugh as if releasing pent-up nerves.

Othain understands those nerves all too well in the thundering beat of his heart in his chest – exhilaration and a surprising lack of oxygen. Perhaps that explains the way his thoughts have come to a crashing halt.

Maxwell leans in again, surer this time. This kiss is chaste, too, but stronger, and then – in an unexpected surge of activity he hooks his arms about Othain’s waist, lifting him without warning and spinning in place, once.

“You – _Maxwell_ , let me _down_ \- !”

Maxwell bursts into sudden laughter, letting Othain drop onto his own two feet before pulling the suddenly-disgruntled witch into a tight hug. “Sorry, just got a bit excited there.”

“It’s – fine,” Othain sighs, can’t bother to be irritable in the moment. He leans into the embrace, buries is face in the crook of Maxwell’s neck and relishes in the warmth and sensation of the man holding him. He can, perhaps, permit himself to enjoy this without thinking overmuch.

Then, moments later, pulling back hesitantly. “I – um, one second.”

“Again?” Maxwell says, lets reluctantly go of Othain. The witch darts over to his pack, retrieving something and then turning back to the other.

“You forgot this, in Redcliffe,” he says quietly, holding the amulet with his family sigil on it out to Maxwell. “Do you-”

“I – _shit_ – I thought your sister – I mean Her Majesty – took it with her,” the man’s eyes are instantly wide, and he crosses the distance between them in two long, rapid strides to take the amulet in hand. “I missed this,” he practically breathes as he replaces the charm around his neck. “Thank you.”

“Well, see that you do not lose it again,” Othain feigns a cross tone, even if he’s grinning at the taller man.

“I won’t. I’ve gotten pretty fond of it.”

Othain smiles silently at that, brings one hand up to hold the stone in his hand as it hangs against Maxwell’s collar. He admires the way the black and gold stand in prominent contrast with the man’s somewhat tanned, yet still fair, skin.

Maxwell chuckles, takes Othain’s hand in his and brings it wordlessly to his lips, brushing a kiss against the man’s knuckles. A brilliant red blush blooms near-instant across Othain’s cheeks.

“Now let’s go to the Rest. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Othain huffs a dramatic sigh, reaching for one of his black tunics and a padded jacket – the chilled nighttime of the Frostbacks is settled over the village, and Othain does not relish the cold. “Very well,” he relents with an air of playful defeat – allowing himself that sense of familiarity that feels natural to him in the company of the warrior. “I shall accompany you.”

“Excellent,” the grin on the man’s face couldn’t be wider. “Let’s go.”

***

The first thing that Othain sees as he enters the tavern, led by Maxwell, is an exchange of coin from Sera to Varric. And then, another, from The Iron Bull to the dwarf. He shoots a glare at the man, only for him to laugh as he realized that they weren’t as surreptitious as he thought.

His jaw almost drops, then, as he sees the same pair give coin to _Solas._

“Sorry Feathers, we took bets on whether Sparkles here could get you to come,” he says as the pair approaches the couple of tables that the group has shoved together. This elicits a barking laugh from Maxwell when he registers the expression on his face.

“You just cost me ten silver, princey,” Sera whines and sticks out her tongue. Maxwell claps a hand against his back, looks to him with continued amusement as he pulls up a couple of chairs.

“If I had known you would be profiting off of my attendance, I would have tossed Maxwell out into the cold,” he grumbles and takes his seat. The warrior feigns offense.

“You know you couldn’t anyway,” Maxwell teases. “What’s our fine dwarven friend done wrong, then?” he asks the witch, who shoots another glare at the one in question.

An exasperated _hmph_ at the knowing look he receives. “He knows,” he practically growls.

The Iron Bull wastes no time in thrusting an enormous flagon of something foul at Maxwell. “Got started without you, boss,” he adds, looks between the two, _winks_ at Maxwell. Othain decides that whatever unspoken assumptions are being passed around Maxwell’s little, insular group, he is not pleased.

“Do you want some ale?” Maxwell asks the mage – Othain feels some slight embarrassment in the fact that he’s never had any, contemplates whether to tell Maxwell that or not, but Varric beats him to it.

“Kid’s never tried it,” he says with a stunted chuckle – perhaps the dwarf has had too many already. Othain is surprised to find a flagon in front of his friend Solas as well.

“What are you drinking?” surprise and curiosity in his tone.

Solas gives him a good-natured grin and lifts the flagon. “Mead,” he says, “It’s a wine made from honey. _Ma adyan esaya ra, mir falon_.”

“Hmph,” Othain huffs, looks curiously at the golden liquid. Next to him, Maxwell goes enthusiastically at the rather large mug of ale that the Bull has thrust at him. “Alright, I-”

Before he can finish, Sera is standing enthusiastically atop her seat to flag down the serving girl. “There ya go – Flissa! Another mead for Feathers ‘ere!” She ignores Varric, at her side, trying to get her to sit in her chair rather than stand in it.

“Do you speak Elvhen?” Maxwell asks, leaning against him to get his attention.

“Some,” Othain’s tone is measured. “Better than most. I learned it in dreams, actually, and – well,” he lets the rest of his sentence drop into silence.

“And what?” Maxwell takes another swig of his drink.

“Nothing. That smells foul,” Othain says, scrunches his nose at the smell of the ale essentially just under his face.

“You get used to it,” Maxwell winks at him, his last syllable disappearing into the flagon. “I – what is it, Bull?” he asks as the mercenary in question slams an enormous grey fist on the wooden table.

_This is chaos,_ Othain thinks as he surveys the table. Solas on his left, Maxwell on his right – opposite them are Varric, who is unsuccessfully trying to reel in the Red Jenny, Sera, who resists his reeling. In fact, she seems to be on the verge of breaking into drunken song; Othain wonders just how long she’s been here already. The Iron Bull, who recounts something to the Herald. Likely something about a fight. Othain feels reserved, and absolutely not in his element, but he lets himself lose the grimace just a bit. Between Sera, Bull and Maxwell, there’s enough banter and noise for the table – Varric chimes in occasionally, and Othain and Solas speak between themselves sporadically. The conversation is punctuated, more often than could be expected, by Sera sloshing her mead onto the table or The Iron Bull’s fists falling on its wood frame with his enthusiastic storytelling. Othain feels content to watch the antics of the others – those who he might tentatively learn to call his friends. It’s a feeling he’s never felt, this odd camaraderie that approaches familiar.

He settles into that curious feeling for several minutes, until he feels a presence directly behind him - a Templar, he knows without turning, as he can feel the reaching sensation of the knight’s connection to lyrium. The man clears his throat, and he turns to see one of the knights from Therinfal looming over him and Maxwell. The latter turns as well, eyeing the man curiously, and Othain can imagine that Maxwell is sighing internally at the likelihood of having to address more templar complaints.

“Herald,” the man begins – gruff, his accent clearly of the South of Ferelden – his tone is grim, but Othain finds that all templars seem to speak that way. “Pardon me. I am Ser Kellen, of Gwaren.”

_Gwaren._ Othain feels some apprehension tensing the muscles of his neck and he forces himself not to react. It could be a coincidence.

“And what do you need, Ser Kellen of Gwaren,” Maxwell’s tone is official, neutral enough not to offend while still making it clear that he doesn’t want to be disturbed by the knight.

The knight looks at Othain now, and continues, speaking down now to the mage. “Word around the village has it that you are Othain Mac Tir,” he says. “If that is true, then you are an apostate. Lord Herald,” he turns his attention back to Maxwell, “this man is a wanted fugitive for fleeing from our custody as a child. In fact, I was one of the attending knights who tracked him to the Brecilian Forest. This witch is guilty of any number of crimes – for all you know, he could even be a Maleficar.”

The color drains from Othain’s face, anger rising quickly in his throat like bile. He knows that his magic mirrors his reaction, power agitating within the cramped interior. The dancing flames of candles and hearths that light the tavern dim subtly, deepening the shadows of the room.

“I would never-” Othain begins, tempted to rise to standing except for the hand that falls on his shoulder as Maxwell speaks up, voice loud enough to cut through the chatter and noise of the tavern.

“And what is your point, Knight?” he asks flatly, brows raised.

“One such as he is not fit to follow the Herald of Andraste!” The knight seems disturbed by Maxwell’s lack of shock – did he expect that the Herald didn’t know? “I would advise you not to trust such a man-”

“It is no longer your job to police the mages,” Maxwell stands, now drawing taller than the Templar. “Focus on your current responsibilities. I will keep company with whoever I want. Am I understood, Knight?”

The tavern falls into an uncomfortable quiet as those present watch an armored Templar Knight shrink under the gaze of the Herald of Andraste. Othain turns back to the table, practically burning a hole into the wood under his gaze.

The knight takes a step back, looks over to a group of his peers who presumably convinced him to go talk to the Herald. “I was under the impression that the Inquisition was virtuous,” he bites, defensive. “Yet you are shielding an apostate-”

Again, Maxwell doesn’t let him finish. “I don’t believe I left room for argument,” he says. Stares the man down until he turns, almost flinching, from the Herald. Maxwell turns back towards the table, leaving the flustered man to return to his comrades, and retakes his seat next to Othain. After a couple of beats, noise returns steadily to the tavern.

The witch can practically feel the heaving sigh that his friend looses as he sits, but his eyes don’t leave the table to see how Maxwell and the others are looking at him.

“The man’s an arse,” Maxwell says quietly, “Don’t pay him any mind-”

“I think I should go,” Othain stands before the warrior can stop him. Hardly pauses long enough to speak before leaving: “Thank you all. I bid you a good night.”

He almost feels guilty as he passes Flissa by on his way out of the tavern, but he feels certain someone at the table will put the mead to use.

It has become quite cold, outside the tavern. The warmth and lingering comfort of mere moments ago dissipate like mist in the dark and crystalline wind of the Frostbacks, leaving him with an uncomfortable sensation sitting in the back of his mind. He inhales, sharp, through his nose, and makes his way towards his cabin.

He almost makes it there before he hears heavy footfalls on the path behind him. He doesn’t turn – he recognizes the approaching Mark, burning bright always in the periphery of his awareness. Maxwell catches up to him at a trot.

“I’m sorry,” he says as Maxwell slows to a walk alongside him.

“You definitely don’t know how to listen,” Maxwell sounds more amused than irritated. “No need to be sorry. I know you deal with shit like that too often.”

Othain stops at the entrance to the cabin, quiet, looks at Maxwell. There’s concern written in the furrow between his bushy red brows. In his clear blue eyes.

“Does it get to you?” Maxwell asks, voice soft.

Othain huffs a wry laugh. “For the most part, on the surface – no, I care not for the opinions of all these nosy Chanters and righteous Templars.” A momentary quiet. “I… find myself caring more, though, of late.”

“Why is that?”

He gives the man a pointed look, one brow arched. From overhead, flakes of snow descend on the village from the inky blackness of night. “Good night, Maxwell.”

“-you can call me Max, if you like,” he says, a lopsided grin growing on his expression. He braces one hand on the cabin door behind Othain, leans in just enough to reduce that distance between them.

“… Good night, Max,” this accompanied by a soft chuckle.

“Can I have a kiss?”

Othain looks around their vicinity – Haven is always busy, people darting here and there on their business – grins. “You ought to be more careful, Herald of Andraste,” the title spoken with a hint of irony to his tone, “Just imagine the gossip…”

“Scandalous,” Maxwell agrees, continues to look at the shorter man expectantly. Othain relents, standing on his toes for just an instant so that he can kiss the warrior standing over him.

He settles back down, silently relishing the way that Maxwell licks his lips, and opens the latch on his cabin door, backing it open. “Now, for the last time, _good night,_ Max.”

“Good night,” the man finally says as he takes a couple steps back from the door; Othain lets the heavy thing fall shut, preferring not to dwell on the complicated emotions sitting on his chest. The anxieties that gnaw at the effervescence he feels from the redheaded warrior.

He tries to clear his head as he prepares to rest – he will need it on the morrow. According to his and Solas’ closest divinations, the power of the Breach wanes with the dusk, and so they have set in motion a plan to seal the cursed thing in the evening. The day shall be spent in preparations – distributing lyrium, laying plans to maximize the utility of the Templars without their interfering with the mages, ensuring thrice-over that the hills surrounding the valley are clear.

They _must_ succeed. Not only for the paramount importance of the deed itself, but they must succeed in order to solidify, bolster their newly-formed alliances. Confidence in their allies sits on the edge of a blade, and Othain is certain that a failure tomorrow has the potential to shatter the Inquisition’s tacit peace.

Uncharacteristically, sleep comes reluctant to him.

***

“Thank you, Cole.” The ambassador nods to the spirit, who turns to leave immediately. Othain watches him go with a sinking feeling – he knows his game of avoiding Josephine and Leliana is routed.

_Traitor,_ he thinks after the spirit, hoping that Cole is listening. He plasters a smile onto his face; if not a smile, then at least he manages to efface his deep frown.

The heavy door to her office falls shut and he turns to the thoroughly unamused pair of women before him. “Hello, Ambassador. Spymaster,” he says with a curt nod. “To what do I owe the pleasure…?”

“You know very well why we’ve asked you here. In fact, you understand well enough to have been evading us ever since your return from Redcliffe,” Leliana says from where she leans against the side of Josephine’s desk.

“ _You_ are the missing Lord Mac Tir … and that has several implications that we must discuss.”

“…fortunately for you, the whole of the Inquisition is rather preoccupied by preparations at the moment,” Josephine tacks on. Othain can see for himself the mounds of missives and assorted paperwork on her desk, the exhaustion written in her expression. It no small amount of effort to run the fast-growing machine of the Inquisition. “And so we intend to keep this brief.”

“For now.” Leliana intones, giving him a pointed look.

“For now,” Josephine repeats. “We wanted to keep this to two subjects for today. The first is this: while we understand your reticence in disclosing your name to us, we can not abide by further secrets, Othain. As someone who is close to the leadership of this organization, we must be able to trust you.”

“I am honestly impressed that you could keep something of this nature from me,” Leliana muses. “But if you have any other grand secrets, Othain, we need to know.”

Othain thinks for a moment. _Does_ he have any other secrets? They know he’s a Dreamer – he has Solas to blame for that, he believes – and now they know his true heritage. “I believe you know everything of consequence about me, now,” he concedes with an irate tint to his tone. “I am not here to undermine the Inquisition, if that’s what you-”

“We know that, Othain.” Josephine cuts him off, gives a sharp look to Leliana. “You have risked your own life for the Herald often enough that we can believe in your intent to help.”

“And speaking of young Lord Trevelyan,” Leliana muses. “You two make a rather adorable couple – don’t give me that look. One of my agents saw you kiss outside your cabin last evening.”

“Max and I aren’t – and anyway –” Othain vents an irritated breath from his nose. “I suppose you are going to tell me to leave him alone? That I am dangerous to his reputation?” He folds his arms across his chest. _I should have known better. I can do nothing, it seems, without some form of scrutiny._

The two exchange a concerned look between them. “That isn’t it, Othain,” Josephine speaks up, delicate. “It’s true, that there will be talk about the two of you – of which you are already aware, I am sure –” then, after a pause for breath: “But we are not interested in controlling either of your personal lives. We only wanted to make you aware of a situation that is a consequence of your relationship to Her Highness, Anora.”

“It is well-known in Fereldan that King Alistair, as a former Warden, cannot bear children,” Leliana continues. “What is lesser-known is that the Queen, as well, cannot have children. This leaves a rather glaring issue of succession for the crown.”

“An issue that _you_ may be called upon to resolve,” Josephine says hesitantly.

Othain looks between the two of them, refusing to understand what they are suggesting. “I am not certain that I follow,” he says at length, flat and bemused.

“We are suggesting that you may be required to produce an heir to the throne,” Leliana is more direct, this time. “You are the heir apparent, but even should you choose to abdicate your inheritance, you are the closest that Fereldan has to a member of the royal family who is capable of producing an heir.”

“That cannot be right,” Othain grimaces, wide-eyed. _This_ is not exactly what he expected to be confronted with, today. Sighs, brings a hand up to press against his temple. “And what has this got to do with Max?”

“ _Max_. Adorable,” Leliana chuckles. “Well, Othain, should the two of you become more serious…”

“We aren’t-”

“-then this is something of which he should be aware. The fortunate thing for you is that, should things… develop further,” Leliana ignores him, “your position actually makes you a much more suitable match for someone from his family.”

Othain groans, rakes a hand through his hair and lets the black locks fall into place haphazardly. “I refuse to think about this. We _kissed._ That is all. I cannot believe I was summoned here to be _gossiped at_.” Then, looking to Josephine and refusing to acknowledge the amusement playing across Leliana’s features – she is rather more mischievous than he suspected – “Is that all? Can I leave?”

“Yes, my lord,” Josephine says. “We have more serious matters to discuss, on a day when we have more time. We can speak again at a later date.”

“Do not call me lord,” Othain begins as he makes his way without delay towards the door. “And if those other matters have anything to do with this… _subject_ … then I would rather we not revisit. Have a good day, Ambassador, Lady Nightingale,” he concludes hurriedly, nods between the two women, and ducks out of the office.

***

“Oh, Herald!” one of the workers – an elf girl, working alongside a young man, the both of them concerning themselves with a stack of crates – says as he picks up one of the boxes with ease. “You mustn’t concern yourself with such things, Your Worship!”

“No really, I want to help-”

“Please, Your Worship, we can handle it,” the man says and lifts the box from Maxwell’s grasp. “You should be restin’, not toilin’ out here with the likes of us.”

The two of them lift their crates and make their way towards the cart to load.

Maxwell sighs, plants his hands on his hips and surveys the bustle of preparations just outside the front gates. It’s been like this all day – he tries to help, and at every turn he’s told to _rest_ , to _save his energy._ He doesn’t need to; he has an abundance of energy, and quite frankly he’d like to get rid of some of it.

He paces away from the gate and towards the training field. Perhaps he can wear himself out swinging his sword. The Bull should be good for a sparring match, or Blackwall –

Neither of them is at the training grounds. When asked, an agent informs him that Blackwall and The Iron Bull are leading the Chargers on scouting missions to ensure the security of the valley.

He went to find Othain, earlier, but the mage was preoccupied with the apothecary, alongside Solas. Vivienne and Dorian were busy with the mages, Cassandra with the Templars. Even Varric and Sera were making themselves useful. Maxwell almost doesn’t understand how this could take so much preparation – he’d had some vague idea, perhaps, that he and his allies would simply make their way to the temple, the Templars would suppress the Breach, the Mages would power the Mark, and he would seal it. Case closed.

But no, so much hangs on this one operation that every wheel, every gear of this machine is turning at full pace. _Everyone_ has got something to do, other than him.

_Can’t even go grab a pint,_ he thinks wistfully. He refuses to be seen drinking while everyone else works.

So he takes his greatsword, strides over to one of the practice dummies – not Cassandra’s, the Seeker’s mannequin has taken far too much abuse already – and gives it a good strike to the abdomen. The blade impacts the cloth and straw with a satisfying ringing of steel and he relishes in the shock of impact that travels along the blade and up his forearms.

Another strike, and then another. In a few minutes, sweat starts to form along his brow and across his shoulders. _This_ is what he needs. He only wishes he could have put this energy to use for something helpful, instead.

He’s had an abundance of energy since last night, as a matter of fact. First, nervousness and frustration as, throughout the day, Othain had ignored him. Again. That sensation mounted until he found out that Solas had come to the Rest, but Othain refused; normally, the witch is willing to go along with whatever his elvhen friend does. Maxwell didn’t understand, to be frank, what Othain even had to be avoiding him over. It was a kiss – not the end of the world.

And so he’d steeled his nerves and marched his way to the man’s cabin and, to be frank, it had been difficult to maintain his air of frustration when he saw the man in tight-fitted breeches and an undershirt that clung to his form. The man has surprisingly well-developed legs…

In any event, his abundance of energy hadn’t been lessened when Othain let him kiss him. _Twice._ And a third time, technically, later that evening. He’d been thinking about it all night, and it took no small amount of his willpower not to try and seek out the mage again today.

_Well._ He hadn’t exactly succeeded at that, yet Othain had been busy. Maxwell strikes the dummy again, now truly working himself up.

He plants the tip of the blade in the ground, catches his breath. Wipes the sleeve of his tunic across his brow, enjoying now the crisp, cold breeze of the mountains. The entire region is blanketed in fresh snow from the night before and, if the sky is any indicator, they are due for more.

Something brushes against his calf, accompanied by a sharp _yowling_. He looks down, startled, to find a black cat at his feet.

“Othain?” he asks, and of course he doesn’t receive any clear response. The cat brushes up against his leg again, seemingly to demand attention. He chuckles. “Did you miss me?” He crouches, closer to the level of the cat, reaches for it hesitantly. “Do you like being petted?” He tilts his head, curious. Othain is still human, after all, even when he… isn’t.

The cat brushes up underneath his hand, and he gently ruffles its thick fur. “Guess that’s a yes, then. Interesting,” he hums.

“Are you talking to a cat?”

Maxwell practically leaps to his feet at Othain’s voice behind him, and the creature darts over towards the witch. Othain crouches down to pet it, giving Maxwell an amused look, a knowing grin playing across his lips.

“I-” Maxwell isn’t sure what to say. _I thought you were the cat? You’ve trained me to assume every black animal I encounter is you?”_

“You thought the cat was me,” the witch deadpans. “Did you assume I enjoy being petted?”

“Hm,” Maxwell hums, then gives the man a grin, practically wicked. “I’d very much like to see if you enjoy it, actually.”

That elicits a blush from the raven-haired man, and he looks down to the cat suddenly. His hair falls in messy curls over his face. “I was going to keep you company, seeing as you have been wandering town like a lost puppy all day, but I see you have found someone suitable.” Then standing, swipes the hair from across his eyes and gives Maxwell a playful look. “I suppose I shall leave you to it…?”

“ _Please_ don’t,” Maxwell says, takes a step forward into Othain’s space and hooks an arm around the man’s shoulders, practically tucking him to his side. He ignores the man’s sharp protest, looking instead to the way his hair falls, disheveled once more, over his face. “Your hair is getting long,” he says, uses his free hand to ruffle it.

The witch manages to wrestle himself free of Maxwell’s underarm, refuses to admit that he didn’t mind that half as much as he feigned. “ _You_ – ugh. I don’t bother to cut it much,” he says.

“So, you were going to keep me company…?” Maxwell nudges Othain. “Did you miss me?”

“I took pity on you,” Othain sighs, but Maxwell can see the grin still tugging at the corners of his lips. The man is a poor actor.

“Well, you’ve got my full attention,” he says. He refuses to relent with the flirtatious tone – watching Othain deflect it is too fun. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“I do, in fact.” Othain starts to walk towards the woods that border Haven. “Come on. We aren’t setting out for another five hours. No one will even notice you’re gone.”

“Is this when you steal my soul?” he asks, even if he does still follow Othain through the snow and towards the dense evergreen stands. He hears him huff a laugh without responding. “Should I be worried that you didn’t say no?” he asks again, but this time the man just motions impatiently for him to catch up. Maxwell jogs through the snow to draw alongside Othain.

He’s led into the woods, down the beaten path for some time. Eventually, Othain diverts them from the dirt path and into the tree line, through a dense thicket that eventually opens up into a broad clearing that stretches for a few hundred meters ahead of them. Druffalo graze lazily at the scattered patches of grass that manage to push though the new snow. All around them, the clearing – a valley, really – is surrounded by dense and tall clusters of evergreens, their thickly needled arms heavy with pillowy snow. Hazy blue-grey mountains frame the overcast sky, and yet – almost too fittingly – a clear patch of blue opens up and illuminates the valley in brilliant white and green.

“Wow,” he breathes, takes a few steps further into the clearing. “Who knew this was so close to the village?”

“I’ve been spending quite a bit of time here,” Othain admits, watches the warrior step forward as if dazed. “But I didn’t bring you here just to look at the mountains,” this with a small amusement playing at his expression.

“I don’t see anything else here.”

“Patience,” Othain, now, walks further into the clearing, lifts one hand into the air before him. Moments later, Maxwell is fascinated to see something – a moth? – light upon his outstretched palm in a fluttering of red-grey wings. Othain leans into his cupped palm, and Maxwell can almost imagine he hears him _speak_ to the thing before releasing it back into the air. The moth disappears into the spruce thickets.

“I’m not sure what just happened,” Maxwell’s confusion is dimmed just a little by his fascination. He can almost imagine – there was something about that moment – he’s tempted to say the mage was working a spell, something unlike the magic he has seen. “What did you just do?”

In response, Othain stretches out on the ground, an invisible current of magic clearing a spot of snow as he reclines. “Patience,” he says again, smirks at the way Maxwell sighs. The warrior sees that same invisible current clear a space next to the mage. “Just come wait by me,” Othain says, and there’s an… innocence to the clear tone of his voice, like sunlight through water, that he can’t argue with.

“Alright,” he says, huffs as he plants himself on the surprisingly dry exposed grass. Next to him, Othain lays in the rare window of sunlight, his eyes closed gently to the cool mountain air. Maxwell shifts onto his side, watches the way that same breeze stirs the other’s hair. He rarely sees Othain so at peace.

Perhaps that isn’t quite right – he rarely sees Othain so _unguarded._ The mage only allows himself brief windows of vulnerability, and nearly all of them have been in the scattered, private moments that he’s shared with Maxwell. The redhead feels something stir in his chest at the thought.

This is a side of Othain that perhaps no one, save he, is privy to.

They pass by several minutes in that companionable, clear – almost precious – silence before, without seemingly reacting to anything, Othain sits up and looks back, behind them, towards the spruce thicket. Maxwell turns too, follows his gaze to the tree line.

Two harts emerge from the forest, one tall and crowned in an array of points the likes of which Maxwell has never seen. The hart is huge, actually, near the size of an elk and a golden-cream in color. The other is shorter, slimmer, its fur paler. One of its antlers impressively flanks its head, but the other seems to have broken near the base.

Othain rises to standing, slow, and Maxwell follows suit.

“I’m not, admittedly, much for riding horses,” Othain begins, as gently as he moves. “But I used to ride halla, and harts, in the forest. Perhaps this is not what you are used to-”

“They’re beautiful,” Maxwell interrupts him, watching as the two harts approach them, cautious. “Are you saying we’re going riding?”

“Well – I know we cannot use any of Dennet’s horses at the moment,” Othain says. This much is true – the Herald had been told earlier that all of the horses were needed for transportation. “So – if they’ll let us, then yes. I thought you might… enjoy it.”

“I – yeah,” Maxwell isn’t sure what to say, or do, as the harts finally come to a halt some ten or so paces away. “What do we do?”

“Well, I’m going to ask them if they’ll let us ride them, and then if they say yes, we can hop on,” Othain almost chuckles. “The way I was taught – riding a hart isn’t like riding a horse. The elvhen say that their friendship with the halla and their kin is a gift. So no saddles, no crops. It’s an equal partnership.”

Maxwell watches as the mage approaches the two halla, one hand outstretched, until he comes to a halt just ahead of them. His outstretched fingers are mere centimeters from the smaller one’s nose. A breathless moment passes between him and the hart; Maxwell feels something almost reverent in the air of the clearing.

The hart leans forward into Othain’s hand. The mage grins, looks back to Maxwell. “Now you. Come up to the other – just like I did. One hand out.” Then, as Maxwell takes a few steps forward, still looking at the witch: “Make eye contact with him. Let him know you respect him.”

Maxwell does as he’s told – he’s almost daunted by the size of the hart that stands almost a head taller than his own mount. The creature is beyond beautiful – it commands attention, respect. It looks regal. Comes to a stop just ahead of the great beast, looks it in its shining black eyes.

The hart leans into his hand, just as the first for Othain. He lets out a relieved breath, pent-up without his realizing.

“See? I knew you’d be a natural,” Othain beams at him.

“I’m surprised you don’t like to ride horses but you do ride harts,” it’s a statement, but understood as a question.

Othain thinks for a moment, strokes a hand along the beast’s thick fur. Maxwell does the same – the hart’s fur is luxurious and soft.

“Horses that are bred for riding have lost a certain… sense that the hart still has,” he explains. “Horses are too skittish, almost distant from nature. That’s why I scare them. They don’t understand me.”

It’s then, for the first time, that Maxwell finally understands this facet of Othain: even if the mage comes across as bookish, at times, often reserved – he is still _wild._ The man next to him is a part of nature as much as he is human.

“Othain…” Maxwell begins, quiet, draws the other’s attention to him. “You’re incredible.”

Maxwell wouldn’t be able to see the blush across his cheekbones – already red from the cold – if he wasn’t becoming quickly practiced at flustering him. Othain ducks his head away, towards the snow-covered ground at his feet, but Max sees the grin that tugs at his expression.

“Where’d that come from – just,” Othain tries to divert Max’s attention back to the harts. “Come on.”

The witch’s hart kneels before him, dipping just low enough for the man to hook an arm about the beast’s neck and hop astride its back. Max steps back and to the side as his does the same; he follows Othain’s example, swinging his legs over the back while maintaining a grip across the back of its neck.

“Make sure you don’t kick him,” Othain says with a raised brow and a knowing look. “And don’t hold him by the antlers. He knows what he’s doing, so if you hold on to the neck you won’t fall off.”

“Alright,” Maxwell says, threads his hands into the fur of the hart’s neck.

“ _Ghila!_ ” Othain calls, abrupt, and his mount lunges abruptly forward.

Maxwell looks after him for a moment, adrenaline already mounting in his system. Beneath him, the hart stirs restlessly. _What did Othain say again?_

“Gila!” he calls, sharp in the crisp silence of the mountain, and the hart is _off_.

He flinches forward against the sudden movement, leaning into the beast’s neck as he finds his balance on its shifting back. Othain was right – the hart’s movement are surprisingly smooth. Still, without a saddle, it engages almost every muscle in his body to keep his balance, and _Maker_ , this is exactly what he needed. He lets out a whooping holler as he gains on Othain, the hart catching onto his excitement and braying just as fiercely. Othain looks behind him, skin whipped red by the cold wind but his expression holding an exhilaration that mirrors Maxwell’s.

Othain and his hart, deft and agile, lead the warrior and his great mount on a chase down the valley towards a stream that cleaves the forest. The harts’ hooves send great sprays of powdered snow into the air; every time that Maxwell feels that he is about to catch up to Othain, he makes a deft turn towards the other flank of the Valley, and his larger mount is left to catch up once again.

They’re approaching the stream rapidly – too much so, Maxwell realizes as he speeds after the other rider.

“Othain – slow –” his voice falls flat in the rushing wind of his passing, but he stops short as Othain’s hart _leaps_ across the stream, easily clearing the six or so meters across.

“Oh, you’re _on,_ ” he leans into the buck as it picks up speed, the sound of hoofs falling on the earth and the wind deafening as they approach the bank –

And for a moment that is brief and somehow, simultaneously, suspended curiously in time, he feels weightless. Giddy, exhilarated, _alive._ He lands on the other bank of the river, the hart requiring absolutely no direction from him as it takes off after its companion.

The forest is packed with tall spruce trees, but little underbrush. The branches of the great evergreens intertwine overhead, vaulted like a Chantry roof, and _there_ – just ahead – the ivory-white of the other hart passing between trees. He expects his mount to have difficulty navigating the dense forest, with its impressive array of points, but the beast weaves deftly through the trees almost unimpeded.

He and his mount do, eventually, lose sight of their counterparts, and the hart comes to a lazy stop between two large pines.

Maxwell looks around the forest, finding neither sight nor track of his friend. “Othain?” he calls to the forest – his voice falls flat on the earth and wood. “Huh,” he says, turning all around again. The hart doesn’t budge. “Where is your friend?” he asks the Hart, who is stopped to graze on the sparse grass of the forest floor. It ignores him.

“Hm,” he hums. He isn’t sure which direction Othain went – isn’t sure which direction he’s gone in himself, to be frank. Without the other here, he isn’t sure he knows the way out of this forest.

“Othain?!” he calls again, louder, still to no response.

He looks back to the hart; at least _he_ seems unbothered by the others’ disappearance. “Gila,” he says, nudging the beast’s shoulders with his hands. He remembers that Othain told him not to heel him.

The hart gives no reaction.

“Gila!” he calls, again. _Am I saying it right?_

Maxwell sighs, looks back around. The forest’s roof is so dense as to block out most light – the interior of the woods takes on an interesting aspect, hazy and grey like Twilight.

_Did Othain leave? Does he even realize I got lost?_

“Othain…” his voice isn’t a shout, this time, so much as it is an aggravated drawl. “Where are you?”

“Did you miss me?” _What – from behind?_

Maxwell turns – well, the hart turns, this time, approaches its companion. “Othain!” he calls to the amused man. “Did you do that on purpose? I thought I was lost!”

“Oh, I cannot lose you,” Othain sighs, beckons his hart move closer. “I can sense the mark from miles away. You were never lost.”

Max hums, looking down to his marked hand, the bright green seam that glows along his palm. That’s an oddly… reassuring thought. “Interesting,” he says.

“Were you afraid?” Othain is closer, now, his mount drawn alongside his. His expression is still playful, but something in his eyes is searching, making sure that he’s alright.

“Not _afraid,_ but – maybe just a little alarmed,” Maxwell admits, almost sheepish. “But this is incredible,” Maxwell says, running his hands once again through the hart’s thick fur.

“Do you feel better, now?” Othain asks – and Maxwell knows he isn’t referring to his disappearance moments ago. The man is referring to something a little more deep-seated. Still, Maxwell can confidently nod, grinning, because it’s true. Something heavy feels as if it’s been lifted off his shoulders, at least in this moment.

“Good,” the witch says; to Max’s surprise he reaches between them, takes a brief hold of one of Max’s hands, squeezes it reassuringly before letting it drop back to his side. “Let’s get back. They know the way.”

They travel in companionable silence, each of them appreciating the simple peace before they arrive back at Haven. The harts truly do know the way, making their way out of the forest and a ways upstream where they cross a narrow fjord into the clearing from before.

The closer they draw to the end of the clearing, Maxwell realizes that today really is _the day_. Soon, he shall either seal the Breach, or fail. _Hopefully without it going like last time._ No Pride demons, ideally. He doesn’t relish the image of Othain, blood streaming from the wound that he took onto himself.

No, he will seal the Breach precisely so that that will not happen again.

“It’s going to be alright, Max,” he hears Othain call from alongside him. He looks up, gives the other man a half-hearted grin.

“I hope so,” he says. “I really don’t want to have to go through this shit a third time.” He huffs a joyless laugh.

Othain sighs; they come to a halt at the end of the clearing, and the witch dismounts after Max. “You should thank him,” he gestures to the hart that looks at the pair of humans; its eyes glint with a curious intelligence.

“Does it have to be in Elvhen?” Maxwell asks, half-teasing, half-serious. This elicits a brusque laugh from the mage.

“Not really. I can teach you, if you like,” he says, still amused by the thought. He moves over to his mount, places his hand against the hart’s nose again. “ _Ma serannas, mir ghilana.”_

Maxwell does the same, tries clumsily to repeat the elvhen phrase – it seems enough for the hart, as the two almost seem to bow before snorting once, returning to the forest.

He watches after them until a hand takes his own, stirring him from his thoughts. “Everything will be alright,” Othain says quietly. “Trust me.”

“You seem so certain,” Max says, turning to face the other. Now, too, Othain senses a vulnerability in Maxwell that others do not see.

“Well,” Othain sighs, clasps Maxwell’s hand in both of his. “I promised to protect you, I recall.”

Max is silent, at that. Thoughts of Redcliffe, of an obsidian-black drake and red lyrium – his breath catches –

Lips against his, cold from their ride, but soft, pull him back to the moment before his thoughts can gain momentum. He gasps, pulls Othain instinctively closer and deepens the kiss.

He encircles Othain’s more slender frame in his arms, loving the sensation of the man almost pressed against him, practically framed by him.

Othain laughs softly into the kiss, pulls back and nuzzles into his collar. “Is that the only way to get you to listen to me?” he huffs, playful.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you,” Maxwell hums into his ear. “I think I need another kiss to hear properly.”

“Arse,” comes the mock annoyance of the man, muffled slightly into his collar. Othain leans back, presses a quick kiss against his cheek before ducking away, dodging Max’s attempts to pull him back. “We have to go. Half of Haven is likely convinced that I’ve spirited you away.”

“I think you did,” Maxwell hums, pleased. “Alright. Lead the way.

***

_I journey across the Fade to bear witness to those influential moments in history, both big and small._

_Something tells me that I should be there, in person, to see it for myself._

As he stands under the eerie, passive conduit of the Breach, Othain cannot help but recall Solas’ words. There truly is a sense of – history, a solemn and collective understanding of the consequences of these next few moments that are to pass in the crater where once stood the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

He stands under the conduit and examines it, probes the power of the Breach that he has become more habituated to even if it still sits oppressively on his skin, even if he is still powerless to affect it. Solas, next to him, makes a slow and deliberate survey of those gathered and remarks to Othain under his breath: “Just think, in the next Age a young man such as you may Dream of what is to pass here.

The witch nods, feeling the mounting pressure of the occasion. Maxwell is being briefed, for the thousandth time, by Leliana and Cullen. Fiona and Vivienne finalize the mages’ positioning as Cassandra and Ser Barris do the templars. Inquisition agents distribute lyrium potions, wait on standby with bows, blades drawn. At the eye of it all stand the Witch and the Wanderer as they make their final examination of the Breach.

Its formidable power swirls around them, lazy currents of mana and Fade residue that traverse the crater in broad strokes, crashing and dissipating against the exposed rock and lyrium only to reform as they spiral back into the veridium-tinted sky. A dichotomy like ocean waves, power without intent, magic as temperamental as the Fade itself.

No one sees it the way Othain does, no one feels its oppressive aura in the same way.

A sleeping giant, one misstep from waking.

Even with all of their preparations, Othain does not know if they possess enough power. It is good, at least, that the Seeker cannot see how his confidence is shaken.

The crater begins to fall into silence as the gathered await his word; he does not relish the pressure of expertise.

“Join the mages,” Othain says to Solas. “I believe… we are ready.” Solas nods, moves to join the lower ranks of the mages. Othain is not to lend his power to their ranks – he is here to ensure the Herald’s survival. There is no telling how the Mark will be affected by this endeavor and, in the worst of cases, if it is to spread violently, he must be prepared to stop it.

And should something _worse_ happen – if they are to summon demons, spirits, and who knows what else – he shall be called upon to drive them back. Their desperate last line of defense, as meager as he is in the face of such raw Power.

He is not accustomed to feeling so small.

At length, he takes a hesitant step back from under the Breach. Then another, turning to the Seeker and giving her a nod – confirmation. His stomach coils under the tension of his nerves. Maxwell walks towards him, and the aura of the Breach is not the only pressure that the Inquisition feels.

“You are ready,” Othain breathes as Max approaches, tries to look confident for the Herald. “I’ve got you. We all do - treat it like any Rift, and you shall have our strength.”

Maxwell nods, sheet-pale. Othain knows that in the stories to come, they will not mention how every assembled soul feels real fear in the presence of the Breach and yet that makes this all the more _real_ , gives visceral shape and form to every passing moment.

“Mages!” Solas cries, his voice amplified tenfold – whether by the crater, or the ambient power of the Breach that fills it, who can say – “Focus past the Herald! Let his will draw from you!”

The ranks of senior mages draw their staffs, plant them on the ground, summon their magic. The Mark is hungry, always, drinking in the raw power in wisps of white-blue light.

Othain resists the urge to join them – he wants to contribute his power, but he understands his place in this endeavor.

“Templars!” Cassandra now, to the ranks of knights that flank the body of mages. They have arranged them this way so that they do not suppress their counterparts’ efforts, and so that the passage of power through Maxwell and into the Mark will be focused, driven. “Form rank and focus on the conduit – suppress its power!”

Templar steel is drawn in unison, arcing silver that breaks the grey of the crater. Already the golden aura of the templars is summoned, _reaching_ for the conduit and surrounding it in that same glow.

Othain looks to Maxwell to find blue eyes on him. “With me,” he says gently, leads Maxwell towards the center of the crater. Raw power thickens the very air they breath, raw power that stirs in the belly of the giant. As difficult as it is for Othain to stand the scraping, swirling currents of energy, he knows that it is tenfold for Maxwell in this moment. The Mark latches onto the conduit hungrily, a tether of electric veridium energy forming in the space of a breath between the man and it, and between it and the Breach.

Maxwell groans under the pressure – _cries –_ with the exertion of his efforts, strains to keep his hand held aloft. Othain can feel the mark eating at the edges of the conduit, power straining against power – wants to brace the other’s hand, to help him with his burden, but he knows that this is Maxwell’s beast to conquer.

The Herald makes his way ahead of the Witch, into the very vortex of the growing storm of mana, thrusts his hand high into the air as he channels more power than Othain would think conceivable – with a guttural, pained cry an enormous bolt of power passes through the mark, along the tether, feeding into the conduit and collapsing it upon itself.

Heaven is filled with silence.

Maxwell’s knees buckle; Othain flinches forward, catches the man as he begins to fall, eases him to crouching on the exposed rock of the crater.

“Max, stay awake,” he mutters, taking ahold of his hand – the Mark glows angrily, spreading ever so slightly along the warrior’s palm. “You need to stay awake, Max. Here,” he withdraws a healing potion from his robes, bringing it to the man’s lips and helping him to drink.

Maxwell sputters, coughs – his expression is pained, but he tries his best to drink the potion.

“Good,” Othain says. “Keep drinking. I must see to your hand. I am sorry, Maxwell, this will be uncomfortable.”

The warrior nods, downs some more of the potion, grits his teeth against his own heavy breathing.

Othain takes his hand again, palm up, placing his own over it and closing his eyes. He summons his magic, the brackish dark smoke that pools at his feet and floods the Mark, driving it back. Max gasps, strains under the sensation of the magic overtaking him.

“Almost there,” he mutters, voice just as strained. He can _feel_ the angered mark retreating into itself, and – that’s enough. He releases his magic, allows it to recede from the Herald. As with once before, the man’s breathing is already easier as the last of the purple smoke dissipates. The Herald leans forward, weak, and Othain catches him against his chest.

“You’re alright,” he whispers into the warrior’s hair. “I’ve got you. Let’s stand – can you stand?”

Maxwell nods, leans back onto his heels. Othain stands, drawing the Herald with him into his own shaky balance. They both turn towards the assembled to find Cassandra approaching.

“You’ve done it,” she says, eyes wide as if disbelieving. “The Breach is sealed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny story, I originally intended this chapter to encompass a lot more story but the length got away from me, so I had to divide the intended content in two. Oh well! I think it worked out. This we way we get a sort of - fluffy - chapter before moving on. Thanks for reading! Don't hesitate to leave a comment with your thoughts!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes in the wake of the Inquisition's success at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

An air of merriment and celebration takes over the Inquisition before they even return to Haven. With the Herald’s success this new mood settles among the marching mages, templars, agents, soldiers – a tangible mélange of relief, and pride, and joy, and wonder that is born of their adrenaline high. Othain struggles to hear his own thoughts over the boisterous talking, cheering of them all as they make their way down out of the mountain and back towards the village. Everyone there is already well aware of their success – the Breach is gone now, and it no longer washes the sky in an iridescent green pallor, no longer looms portentous over the people below it.

Othain walks alongside Solas, the pair just a little distant from the rest of the pack.

“A momentous night,” the older mage breaks their companionable silence. “Their joy is well-earned, as is their pride.

“For some of them,” the younger’s response is terse. “For some, this is reparation. A start.”

A beat of silence. A ponderous expression darkens the other’s features. “Perhaps.”

Othain looks over the traveling crowd. A far cry from that of a mere hour or so previous: formerly silent, organized into strict ranks, each individual thinking only of their role in the coming endeavor, the high cost of failure. Now they walk in a haphazard manner, friends and acquaintances gravitating towards each other, laughter and chatter floating in the evening air. Some of them have even, somehow, procured flasks of some liquor or other. Ahead of them all, the Herald accompanies the Inquisition’s leadership on horseback at a relaxed pace.

Max is… impressive, in his dress armor. He sits tall on his mount despite how heavily Othain knows his fatigue must weigh him down. The man knows well his own importance as a symbol for the Inquisition’s followers, its allies. Still, Othain had felt the strain that the mark had put him under, how the man had buckled under the sheer amount of raw mana being channeled through his body. It was overpowering even for a mage, even for a _Dreamer_ ; harder still, to bear, for a normal man.

_Perhaps Maxwell is no normal man._

Othain breaks his own gaze from the Herald’s armored back, casting his eyes to the ground before him. Solas’ voice, again, brings him out of his own thoughts.

“You seem very fond of the Herald.”

Othain looks at Max again for a long moment, then to Solas. He finds the elf’s expression is inscrutable as it lingers on him. “I suppose so.”

“And he returns your feelings?”

That effervescent sensation lights in his chest again, the memory of a kiss in a sanctuary of pine and spruce. “It… seems so,” he breaths, allows that sensation to draw his expression into just the faintest of grins. “Even if it is beyond my comprehension,” this accompanied by a brusque, wry laugh.

“I see.”

The silence that succeeds Solas’ reaction settles uncomfortable on Othain’s skin, leaves him dissatisfied. Solas rarely wastes words, rarely asks questions for no reason.

The witch waits for a moment, hoping that the other will continue, with no luck.

“Why? Have you some thought on the subject?” he bites, impatient.

“Only some reservation,” Solas acknowledges with a shallow nod. “Yet the Herald already defies what I have seen of his kind, and so I will withhold judgement.”

He finds himself feeling an irrational desire to argue with his friend, to defend Max even if he hasn’t been truly slighted. Even if he knows what Solas means: Max has proven himself to be unlike other men, unlike the others of his society and his standing. He lacks their narrow-mindedness. More so than being merely tolerant, he seems to embrace new concepts, new perspectives. Othain represses the urge to tell Solas precisely that, to snap in the older mage’s face.

Othain is alarmed at the combative urge, mostly because it is disproportionate to any insult against Max. Solas likely didn’t intend any at all.

“Still, I would advise you tread cautiously,” Solas continues after a moment, after allowing the tension to fall somewhat. “You and he belong to separate worlds, whose borders are not so easily traversed as the Veil.”

Othain doesn’t know how to respond, and so he lets the subject drop, the thought hanging in the air between them. There’s a curious pressure on his chest; it sends a hard knot up and into his throat, sensations with which the young man is not familiar. The foreign sensation threatens to squeeze the air from his lungs with mounting anxiety. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, releases it slowly and tries to relax the tense lines of his shoulders. Next to him Solas seems content, for the moment, to allow his young friend to think.

“I would rather not think on it overmuch,” he says at length. “And – regardless. We only kissed. Perhaps nothing more shall happen.”

Solas arches a brow in his direction, but doesn’t respond.

The air of camaraderie speeds their passage, by comparison to their arrival. They make their way down from the mountains and back into Haven – greeted at the front gates by Josephine, who formally thanks Maxwell on behalf of the Inquisition, as well as their allies, and announces that festivities have been organized for the evening. This is, naturally, received with enthusiasm by the crowd and, as the gates are opened to allow the Herald to pass into the village, he is greeted with even greater cheer.

The way that the Herald is welcomed as a hero elicits a fond warmth in the witch, watching from the periphery of the crowd. Max _does_ deserve their thanks, their praise. He has risked enough to accomplish this feat, after all.

From nearby, magic pushes and recedes against his own, agitated and warm, bubbling and hissing. He knows already who it is as the Tevene draws nearer. Dorian is a mage of no small power, and he’s made a habit of prodding and poking at the witch’s ever-present ambient power when he is near. Tension grows along Othain’s spine, in his jaw as it grits just a little tighter. He tries not to dislike the man – truly, he tries, knowing that the man saved Max from his fate in Redcliffe – but the Altus’ ties with Magister Alexius colors Othain’s perception of him.

“How am I not surprised to find you here? In the shadows, watching over the Herald like a good little mabari,” Dorian’s voice is quiet and yet edged like a dagger. “What a curious man you are, Othain.”

“Hello, Dorian.”

“And so polite, too!” A broad, confident grin finds its way onto the man’s face, and he absentmindedly takes one end of his moustache and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. “So, then, my young acquaintance, why don’t you go join your _amant_?” Then, his tone dropping and his expression turning mischievous. “And don’t bother to tell me that you don’t know what I’m talking about, I saw you leading the man into the woods earlier, and I’d wager you aren’t as naïve as you pretend.”

Othain heaves a heavy sigh. _Of course. This village is filled to the brim with idle gossips._

“I prefer not to be at the center of a crowd,” he says. “And even if I did, this is Maxwell’s moment. Some of us do not devote our every thought to grasping at attention.”

Dorian arches a brow at that, and Othain almost imagines he sees the corner of his grin falter, twitch for just an instant. “You say that, and yet everything that you do seems to draw attention to you. Not to mention how you turned out to be the Queen of Ferelden’s long-lost brother. All very convenient, y-”

“Do you have a point?” Othain asks, irate. He has no intention of playing the man’s game of thinly-veiled jabs and attention-seeking.

The Tevene scoffs. “Perhaps you aren’t so polite after all – well,” he says, “I just thought I would give you a little friendly advice.”

“I am not certain I am interested in your _advice._ ” Othain folds his arms across his chest, feeling cold without his cloak.

“Well, I do love giving it anyway,” Dorian preens. “I thought you should know that a man like Trevelyan isn’t going to dote on you forever, little witch. So perhaps you had better get things moving sooner rather than later.”

With that, Dorian passes back into the crowd before Othain can push down the ire rising in his throat and respond.

_I believe I have had enough of these ‘festivities’._

The crowd continues on its way towards the Tavern, and towards the Chantry, where Josephine has pulled together what funds she could to arrange for a bit of celebration – food, drink, music. The people deserve that much, and the young man, reserved as he is, forgives them their noise and their revelry even if it grates against his nerves. He is quickly discovering that he does not do well in crowds.

He breaks off from the arriving group, makes towards his cabin. Dorian’s ‘advice’ still irks him, irritation just under his skin; it doesn’t help that he was already thinking heavily on Solas’ words. In fact, he is so engrossed in his thoughts as to miss the sound of a voice calling after him, the bright burning Mark that approaches. 

“Othain!” Maxwell finally manages to pull him out of his thoughts with a heavy hand on his shoulder. He flinches, startled – turns sharply to find the man grinning down at him even if his eyes show the barest tint of worry. He blinks, slowly, then realizes that the man had been calling after him. Max tells him as much. “You okay? I called after you several times, just now.”

“Sorry,” he says, meets the other’s clear blue eyes and pulls his expression into a small grin with some effort. “I was just thinking.”

“Of disappearing?” Max says, nodding to the path that winds towards the Apothecary and, nearby, his cabin.

“Of resting,” Othain amends. “And if I am honest, you should do the same. It is plain to see how tired you are.”

Max huffs a laugh, visibly lets himself relax a bit. The lines of his shoulders fall, and he shifts uncomfortably in his boots. “Nothing gets past you, I suppose. Is it that obvious?”

He shakes his head, the motion causing black curls to fall in front of his face. He cards his hand through them, pulling his unruly hair back and to the side. “Perhaps I have been paying more attention, then.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting with me,” Max smirks, draws a step closer to nudge the shorter man in his side. “Anyway… there’s time to rest later. Come with me, let’s go enjoy the celebration.”

“Time to rest later? You _did_ just channel enough magic through your body to seal the Breach, you realize,” he can’t help but respond wryly. “If I were you, I would sleep until the next Age-”

“Maybe if you were to join me…”

“Do you realize that you are incorrigible?” Othain asks, takes a step back from the Herald and smiles as the man takes a step to follow. “In any event. Go on, have your fun – I truly do wish to go rest.”

“Hmm,” Max sighs, folds his armored arms across his breastplate. He hasn’t had the opportunity to change into lighter things, yet. “Alright, but I can’t help but notice that the one person who hasn’t congratulated me on sealing the Breach is the one person who I was really hoping to hear from. Maybe we can fix that, Othain?”

He chooses not to pick up on the man’s playful tone, keeping his expression passive. “Congratulations on sealing the Breach, Herald of Andraste,” he deadpans, then huffs a laugh at the grimace that elicits from Max.

“I was thinking perhaps I could have another kiss,” more direct this time – the redhead takes another step forward, close enough so that Othain can feel the heat of the days’ exertions coming off his armor.

“You don’t seem very concerned with your privacy,” Othain notes – they _are_ in plain view of any number of onlookers, he realizes, and his conversations with Leliana, Josephine, Solas and Dorian come to mind. “Did you know that I have been interrogated by no fewer than four people about you and I in front of my cabin?”

“Only four? I think we can beat that number easily,” Maxwell is smug, now, and somehow it sparks some irritability in Othain – even if, at the same time, the man’s confidence draws him in, addictive, he wishes Maxwell would take his own privacy seriously.

“You are very intent on making it difficult for me to protect your reputation,” Othain tries one last time – if Maxwell doesn’t care about gossips and onlookers, after all, then why should he? “I-”

This time, Maxwell simply leans in against the shorter man, cutting the words from his mouth with a kiss. This one is less chaste than those before, chapped lips that slot against Othain’s that were already just parted with speech. The hard edge of a steel gauntlet rests against the small of his back, the gentlest of pressure than prompts Othain to lean in closer.

This kiss is deeper, needier than before, and Othain _feels_ more than he hears a low moan that hums in the back of Maxwell’s throat. He braces his hands just barely on the sides of Maxwell’s cuirass so that he can lean in just a bit more, shift just a bit of his weight against the warrior. The mage can practically feel the way Maxwell’s body relaxes, the tension that melts from his shoulders, his arms, along his back – and something in his chest soars as he realizes that _this_ is something Maxwell needed to recover from the strain of sealing the Breach.

They part, after a moment whose length escapes Othain – that instant was stretched out with the breath stolen from his lungs and the static that overtook his thoughts.

Maxwell kisses him once more, briefly, before letting him settle back into his own balance – Othain can’t help but notice, in the periphery of his vision, that they have an audience, but he shoves that worry down and away. The blue eyes that meet his are what he prefers to focus on in this moment.

“Well, rest if you must,” Max says as he steps back, licks his lips, eyes never leaving Othain’s. “I’ll be in the Tavern. Word has it that six of our templars have challenged The Iron Bull to a drinking contest, and I really _have to_ watch.”

Othain can’t help but chuckle – if he’s honest, he’s still a little dazed. “I… shall. Enjoy the festivities. You have certainly earned it.” Brows raise as the man _winks_ at him, turns, makes his way into the tavern. At length, Othain releases the breath that is still caught in his throat, looking after him even as he disappears from sight, and then makes his way to the cabin.

He’s not certain how Maxwell does that – dispels his worries, his anxieties, brings his focus sharply onto the moments shared between the two of them – but he isn’t sure that he minds.

***

The sky doesn’t seem certain what to do about the absence of the Breach.

Seated in the translucent un-grass of the Fade island where he spends many of his nights, Othain looks on with open curiosity as the multitudes of spirits who were previously gathered to observe the Breach react to its sudden absence. Change comes and goes for such creatures – in fact, change and transience are among their chief qualities, their very existence as changeable as a storm in the summer – but the Breach had quickly become a constant in the physical makeup of the Veil, second to the Black City in its far-reaching presence and its landmark quality in the otherwise inconstant plane.

Over the Frostbacks, the inky blackness of the night sky is healed seamlessly, the violent magic that rent the sky leaving behind not a single stitch of Fade residue. Here, however, the sky mottles and clears in turns, in tides. The physical Breach is no longer there, but the spirits’ collective certainty that it _was there_ stains the empty air as quickly as their perception that the Breach is _no longer there_ clears it.

The Dreamer is fascinated, in a way, to watch the spirits press against the Veil with their open curiosity. He can almost see the other plane, the plane of his reality, where spirits have thinned the veil significantly enough. Like with all things in the Fade, however, the glimpses he sees come from a multitude of perspectives, impossible and twisting, perception-tainted reality. He sees Maxwell, again, in the visions of many of these spirits. He stands tall, hand thrust defiantly into the air as magic crashes and swirls around and against him – it feels so real that his anxiety mounts again, returns him to that moment where he could _feel_ the physical strain of the Mark –

Already, the Herald’s legend twists and turns. It is clear from these glimpses that those who witnessed the event never noticed his fear, his struggle. He holds that memory close, the striking reality that reminds him that he was _there_ , that he was the one to catch the Herald in that last moment, that he was the one to help him stand back up. That he had fulfilled his promise –

He had kept Maxwell _safe_.

The Dreamer lays back against the immaterial stone of the Island, rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. He could practically feel the man’s lips against his, his lips just slightly chapped, insistent and –

_I truly am doting like a maiden. Or a tween._ He can’t help but to laugh at himself, at his own distraction. If he isn’t careful, he will unwittingly change the nature of this island with his errant thoughts – his fantasies, even…

He spends some time like that – many nights are spent in exploration of the Fade, in chasing the scattered memories and dreams across its landscape. Now, he prefers to recline against the stone and allow himself to relax, to feel at peace. He can almost feel the sunlight on his face, the same sunlight from in the valley of the Frostbacks, lying next to Max. He shuts his eyes against the sun and simply breathes.

A breeze stirs him from his thoughts, prompts him to sit up in the immaterial meadow at the apex of the world. _Intent_ , raw mana that brushes and scrapes against his skin. He looks around to see the spirits scattered, the Island deserted. Something unsettling grows, knots in his stomach. He can feel the Fade around him – shifting?

No, the Fade is… _shuddering_ , almost, flooded by an ambient sense of apprehension that has scattered the spirits from mere moments previous.

He draws his cloak about himself – the warmth of the sun is suddenly gone – and paces over to the edge of the Island, looking beyond it to the broad spiral of such structures that descend into and across this region of the Fade.

_There_ – on the horizon – something dark, almost black, and growing rapidly. Its edge grows and reveals new terrain, viciously split mountains and spires that stretch across the sky.

Othain shifts in a sigh of mana, a fantastically large raven that descends from the apex of the spiral of islands and makes its way swiftly to the island at its very base. He does not typically allow himself to fly in the Fade; the place is so temperamental, its very essence unpredictable, that such movements cannot be considered safe, and yet he feels a real sense of urgency, of foreboding.

Flying over the island, he sees it much more clearly. There truly is an encroaching land mass, a Fade Island of a depth and breadth that can only mean it is the domain of some spirit or demon – as aggressively as it spreads, it can only be a demon, and a powerful one.

He sees, too, the Island beneath him react to the encroaching land, its grass darkening and withering into translucent black shards that dissipate in ash on the immaterial breeze, its soil blackening and then –

Spiders. _Terrors_ – minor ones, but still – emerge from the shadows and from the shadowed earth.

His breath hitches, heartbeat spikes in his chests. He descends upon one of the newly-formed spiders, uncertain he can maintain his form under the oppressive aura that invades this region of the fade. This is something stronger than he has ever felt – darker, even, than any demon he has encountered. And it is approaching – very quickly.

_Something is very wrong._

***

“ _Dreamer_.” Othain awakes to find Cole in the cabin, knelt alongside the fire. “Something is wrong – you feel fear. Blackness, ash, dry and scraping of raw Fade, just beneath the skin.”

Othain nods as he swings his legs around, practically jumping out of bed. “Cole. There’s no time to waste – where is Cullen?”

“He is in the practice field. It clears his head.”

“Alright. I’ll go to him. I need you to get Leliana and the Seeker. And – ” he hesitates. “Blow the signal horn.”

Cole disappears without response, using his unique nature as a spirit to travel with more haste. Othain throws his tunic and breeches back on before retrieving his cloak, throws open the door – and takes off in a cloud of smoke and feathers.

Cullen is indeed in the practice field, a lone figure partially illuminated by candlelight as he stands hunched over a workbench and its stacks of missives.

If Othain weren’t in such a hurry, he would feel sorry about how the man startles when he lands at the foot of his desks, transforms in an abrupt cloud of obsidian-black smoke before the man. He remembers, dimly, that the man is a former templar, but he doesn’t have time to feel alarmed, or even to think. He doesn’t even know _what_ is coming, but he knows that it _is,_ and that the Inquisition is wholly unprepared for whatever is approaching the village.

In the Fade, short distances can stretch out across vast geographies – and with the speed that whatever _it_ is, is approaching, it must be very nearby in the physical plane.

“Commander Cullen,” he begins, out of breath from his hurried shifting. “Sorry – no time – something is coming.”

Cullen is understandably wary, off-guard, but he tries to relax as he recognizes the witch. “Othain – this is very irregular, what-”

“You have to get soldiers ready. Now,” Othain insists, gesturing away from Haven and into the deep night of the mountains. “Something is coming. I don’t know what – yet – but it is, and you have to get ready. Cole is getting Leliana and Seeker and then-” The signal horn pierces the air, and after a moment’s hesitation he can hear the gears of the Inquisition begin to turn. “And then blowing the horn,” he sighs. “A bit too early.”  
Cullen looks into the dark woods, then to the witch, and then to the village. Conflict reigns across his face and, with a sigh, he rakes a hand through his straw-gold hair all the way back to the back of his neck.

“Alright. Let’s get to the gate,” he says, moving with sudden purpose to retrieve his armor, his blade.

“You go. I have to go find out what it is,” Othain says. “Tell the others for me – I have to go-”

“Oh no you’re not,” Cullen reaches out with surprising sureness to grip the witch by the forearm. “I’m not telling the Herald that you ran off into the night chasing danger. You wait until we come to a decision.”

“But Commander-”

An _arrow_ lands, dumb and robbed of force, against the fresh barrier over Cullen’s form. Othain turns to see – _Red Templars?_

If he wasn’t suitably alarmed before, his vague panic takes on very real form as they approach.

“Red Templars,” Cullen breathes in shock. “Are these – a scouting force, or a vanguard? Are we under attack?”

“I do not know yet – we need to go. To the gate, Commander!” he says, lifting both hands in front of his chest to conjure brackish purple smoke in each fist. A powerful paralyzing hex that, as it’s released, weaves the oncoming foes’ limbs into lead weights, halts the very air in their lungs. No more templars emerge immediately from the forest, but Othain can _feel_ the encroaching wrongness of greater numbers. The red lyrium that swims in their veins, that pierces the wretched sores in their skin, it _sings_ , heavy and sweet and _wretched_.

“Alright, then,” Cullen nods to him, gripping his sword and backing away, then turning. “Come on – we must rally with the others!” he grips a horn retrieved from his things and blows it – a signal of another kind, one to rally the Inquisition’s forces. He blows it again as the pair approach the gate. Othain swings it open with a gesture and the slightest force magic.

“Cullen!” urgent and impatient – Cassandra – approaches with haste from the direction of the Chantry alongside the Seeker and Maxwell, too. “And _Othain_ \- What is happening? Why did Cole blow the signal horn?”

“Red Templars,” Othain almost can’t stop the words from tumbling from his mouth in his haste, approaching panic. “Something is coming, something powerful – I do not know what – I sensed it, but it is drawing near. I must-”

Maxwell steps forward, braces a hand on either side of the mage’s shoulders. “Othain, slow down. Calm down – Red Templars? What is happening?”

“I _don’t know._ I need to go out there and find out exactly what it is, because it’s something _more_ than Red Templars. I felt it in the Fade,” he says, eyes wide and flitting between the various leaders of the Inquisition. “It was like a demon, only powerful. Very, very powerful, and _wrong_. The Commander wouldn’t let me-”

“He tried to fly off into the night and find out what it is,” Cullen sighs. “And I told him to wait. However, we need information. It might not be a bad idea to let Othain investigate-”

“Absolutely not,” Maxwell rebuts the idea instantly, his expression almost angry as it returns to Othain. “I can’t believe y- never mind. Where is Cole now?”

“I am here.”

“Good –” Maxwell is no longer fazed by the man-spirit’s abrupt arrivals and disappearances. He drops his hands from Othain’s shoulders, turns to address Cole. “Can you find out what is coming? Can you… _hear_ them, at all?”

Othain must admit that is an option that never occurred to him – his first instinct had been to fly off into the night and see what he could find.

Cole disappears, for a moment, but Othain sees him again in the shadow of the open gate just before he speaks. “The Elder One comes,” his voice is sober and distant, tinged with that quality of the Fade that he carries always with him. “He is angry that you took first his templars, and then his mages. He wants to hurt.” Then, turning to Maxwell. “ _You.”_

Through the open gate they see it, now: torches in the distance, streams of scattered lights in the darkness of the mountains. A real force shows itself over the crest of the neighboring hills and descends upon the valley in flaming rivulets through the snowy forests.

Othain looks to the Herald, sees real fear in the shadows of his eyes, sees him swallow his fear and conquer it in that moment. _That_ is what sets him apart from a normal man.

Maxwell turns to the others. “Cullen – what are our options?”

“We need to shore up defenses, load trebuchets. Haven is not a fortress; if we are to make a stand here, we need to hit that force, and hit it _hard.”_

“Right. I need the others,” Maxwell says as he moves to tighten once again the straps of his armor. “Cole – can you help me? Bring Bull, Blackwall, Varric, and Solas. Ask Dorian, Vivienne and Sera to get people into the Chantry.”

“I shall mobilize our mages,” Leliana says. “Cullen, rally the soldiers. Cassandra – the templars.”

Othain moves from the group, towards the gate to stand next to Cole. Cullen draws a pair of soldiers to him, gestures past the witch to the trebuchet that stands, thus far unused, about twenty yards ahead of the palisade. The witch can feel the draw of red lyrium, ever closer, hovering in the periphery of the woods.

Max’ voice from beside him, almost startling. “You aren’t thinking of fighting them by yourself, I hope,” he says, looking with a mix of concern, frustration, something fonder to the man next to him.

“We need to hold the trebuchet. I can’t wait for everyone to get here,” Othain says. “Wait here. There’s no need for you-”

“What, so it’s fine for you to go risk your neck for no reason while I sit inside the walls?” Max scoffs. “Just – come on.”

The warrior draws his blade as the barrier slides over him, the already powerful defensive magic woven even tighter with the help of the charm he wears always at his collar. Maxwell turns to Cullen’s two soldiers. “Wait here for us to clear the trebuchet – you can come to man it once I give you the all-clear. Understood?” then, nodding to the witch: “Let’s go.”

Othain is off in a pillar of smoke than barrels its way to the trebuchet. Upon landing he looses a wave of force magic that hits two of his enemies – _Venatori_ – and sends them flying from the platform of the war-machine. Some creature, horrid mess of sharp red lyrium, tries to flank him; he seeds the creature with an explosive hex before lifting it invisibly and tossing it into the ranks of its allies. It erupts in a mess of red lyrium, black-corrupted blood and flesh, and brackish mana.

Othain turns, then, to the other side of the platform where a Red Templar advances upon him – panics slightly as he realizes that he has advanced into battle with no protection from silencing – before Maxwell practically crashes into the creature in a horrid grating of steel through crystalline flesh.

The warrior gives him a _look_ before turning to find that the platform, for now, is clear. He motions to the soldiers, who make their advance on the trebuchet. Varric, Solas and Blackwall appear through the gate next, followed by The Iron Bull and Cole.

Othain perches opposite the trebuchet from the gate, peering into the forest to watch for encroaching horrors, and laying glyphs at the path that makes its way around the machine and towards the village.

“ _Alright_ , Boss, now this looks like a fight!” Bull shouts as he draws near, somewhat inebriated following his bout of drinking earlier. “And it looks like more assholes are on the way!”

“Only you would be excited about this, Bull,” Varric mutters under his breath, prepares Bianca. “Hey Feathers, can we get a barrier too?”

He draws the witch from his concentration on the forest’s edge just long enough for the powerful defensive spell to slide over the rest of their forms. “More are coming,” Othain says. “I can’t believe I didn’t see-”

“What matters now is that we hold them off,” Solas interrupts him.

Othain stands clear as one of the soldiers announces that the machine is clear to fire; at the same time, he can see templars and mages making their way from the village to defend the position.

“Alright,” Max says as they draw near. “Let’s go clear the other trebuchet – they can hold this one. Cole,” he calls to the spirit, “go help in the Chantry. Keep the people from panicking.”

The man-spirit departs without a word; Othain notes the unease that this elicits in the Qunari.

“Okay. On me,” the Herald says to the rest of his companions. “Othain, _don’t_ run off ahead.” The witch nods, not nearly as chastised as he should feel, and follows Maxwell as he leads his companions towards the other trebuchet. Southwest, past the smithy – Maxwell calls out for Harritt to make his way to the Chantry, but doesn’t stop for the response – and emerging into a clearing backed by the sloping mountain pass on one side and framed by stands of Spruce on the others, facing the frozen lake of the valley.

There are Red Templars here, already. Before they can react to their approach, Othain flings a curse into their midst and catches three of their number in an immobilizing hex. Moments later, a bolt embeds itself in the lead templar’s chest with a sickening squelch.

The Iron Bull _roars_ – bold, as always, but particularly reinforced by the barrier that deflects the first of the arrows launched by the enemy’s archer – and charges the platform, his greataxe brought already to bear in an low sweep whose momentum sends the archer flying at least a yard. His axe is truly menacing in battle, a solid iron bull’s-head mounted atop a gleaming, groved blade that splits the beast’s snout. The haft is three-quarters the length of Othain’s body and, even if the witch doesn’t _understand_ the mercenary, he can at least appreciate the strength it takes to wield the enormous weapon with such surprising deftness.

Maxwell, though, is the true sight to behold in combat. In the light of torches and with the second-skin of Othain’s barrier, his armor glistens in stark contrast, scorched steel, and the man brings his impressive stature and reach to bear with the fluid striking of his greatsword.

Othain plays support again, not wanting to muddle their combat, choosing instead to watch the tree line and the south-bound trail through the mountain for other opponents. Maxwell and his companions clear the trebuchet with brutal efficiency – they are becoming a unit to be feared – and Max helps Bull to begin preparing the war machine.

Othain draws nearer to the trebuchet, alongside Solas and Varric. _Something_ feels off – he can sense something on the periphery of his awareness, and he probes the tree line, power washing through the clearing and in between the trees to discover what could be waiting in their shadows.

“Solas,” he says quietly so as not to elicit undue alarm, “Do you feel that?”

“I do,” the elf says, his keen eyes as fixed on the shadows as the Dreamer’s are. “Something powerful approaches.”

“Maxell-” Othain calls, and _then_ it strikes –

A brutal wave of force magic erupts from the mountain path, catching the witch and sending him flying towards the palisade wall – in reflex he erupts into a cloud of smoke, reforming some yards away and facing the direction of his attacker. “ _What in Thedas-”_

Another wave, and then another – a veritable onslaught of magic that Othain struggles to combat with his own impressive power. He meets six or so of the attacks before, from the shadow of the mountain, emerges his attacker.

A woman, a _powerful_ mage even if she is slight in stature. Blonde and thin, all sharp angles and domineering aura. She strides confidently into the clearing, alone, brandishing before her a staff in the Tevinter style: brutal, blade-like iron gilded in gold, with a fan-shaped counter-weight at the other end.

“So, you are the Dreamer I have heard so much about!” she calls across the clearing. Othain hears Maxwell and the others draw their blades from next to the trebuchet – he Fade-steps in between them and the approaching mage.

“Stay where you are, all of you,” he cautions, his voice low. He feels _real_ fear in the face of the approaching woman. The depths of her power are unknown to him – unlike anything he has encountered before. “Who are you?!” he calls, louder, to her.

“You are not the only Dreamer born to this age, Witch,” her response is almost a hiss, the blade-staff lofted aggressively in his direction. “It will be a pleasure to kill one of my own kind, in the name of the Elder One! Face me!”

In a wild gesture, the witch issues forth a roiling black wave of thick, viscous mana. Where it glides over the ground the soil blackens, grass and brush wilt and shrivel into nothing. The Tevinter Dreamer watches the curse approach, curious, before thrusting the blade-end of her staff into the ground before her, releasing a counter-spell in a flash of golden-red light, then raising it to counter the follow-up spell that Othain launches at her, a wave of raw force magic that she counters just as easily as the first spell.

The witch’s heart races as she _grins_ , lifts her blade-staff and Fade-Steps directly into his space – he barely evades the sweeping arc of her staff, caught off-guard by the magic that she releases into the same stroke. It catches him in the midsection and sends him reeling, gripping his stomach.

A bolt falls numbly against her own barrier, and she looks up just as Maxwell rushes from her flank, bringing his blade to bear against her own; in a sigh of magic she disarms him and pushes him back. Peals of laughter, ringing like a bell and cruel as a blade, pierce the war-torn air of the Valley.

“You shall have to wait your turn, Herald! My business is first with the Witch!” she cries before catching a wave of magic in the gut that sends her backward; she catches her own momentum, gliding back with the attack on molten flame that leaves two brilliant-red trails of fire on the blackened soil of the clearing.

What she is unprepared for is the onslaught of ravens, a veritable storm of the birds that encompasses her like a storm cloud, all raking claws and beating wings that disorients her and, for a moment overwhelms her.

“ _Ugh!_ ” she cries, charged lightning surging to the tip of her staff – Othain gets clear just in time for the spell to miss the multitudes of his form, convalescing into his own shape. “ _Disgusting_ witch!” she cries, launching another ball of the hot plasma in his direction. He catches the magic, stretching the electricity between his hands and returns it to her – it fizzles against her barrier.

_Focus on the trebuchet,_ Othain silently urges Maxwell – he hopes the man will leave the mage to him, even if he dares not call out to the man or even to look at him.

A wave of frost floods the clearing, and Othain looks to see Solas brandishing his own staff, approaching the witch. The other Dreamer meets the frost in kind, a wave of flame dissipating the encroaching ice just before it can find its way to her.

“You are outmatched, Dreamer!” he calls as he comes to stand next to Othain. “You will not claim Victory this day!”

“Wrong you are,” she says, taps her staff against the ground. “Samson! Help me remove these wretches from our Master’s path!”

A beat of silence before another figure approaches from the mountain pass. A man, this time, in curious armor similar to that of a templar. He is tall – massive, for a human – with stark black hair and a thin beard. In one hand he grips a greatsword, the tip of the impossibly large blade dragging almost lazily against the ruined earth.

“You runnin’ into some trouble, Calpernia?” he asks, scoffs. “Never thought I’d see the day you asked _me_ for help. But no matter – let’s squash this mage brat-”

Maxwell moves to stand on Othain’s other side, blade brandished in a solid grip devoid of bravado. Othain can almost feel the man’s deadly intent. From nearer the trebuchet, The Iron Bull moves to flank the pair.

“You make one more step, and I will end you,” Maxwell’s voice is low and yet somehow fills the clearing in a menacing growl. Othain begins to pool power in the palms of his hands, looking anxiously between the Dreamer’s – Calpernia’s? – new ally and the Herald.

He doesn’t know why, precisely – this man fills him with even more dread than does his mage counterpart. Demeanor casual, uncaring, but there is an inherent aggression, and _anger_ , in him that Othain can feel and then, beyond that, _power._ It feels like the corrupt strength of Red Lyrium, and yet this man is nothing like the raging monsters they have thus far encountered; it defies all logic, and that unknown quality makes the fine hairs of Othain’s neck stand on end.

A brief look passes between himself and Maxwell, and he finds no fear there, only raw determination in the set line of his jaw, in the glint of fire and steel in his eyes.

“You are a cocky brat,” Samson spits as he lifts his own blade. “And your hand will make a fine prize for my Master-”

The trebuchet fires with an earth-shaking force, drawing all of their attention to the arcing trajectory of the stone… as it impacts the side of the mountain. The valley falls into a brief silence, and then that silence is broken by the crescendo, the rush of snow down the mountain and towards the valley.

Calpernia and Samson watch as the avalanche descends upon the basin and overtakes the vanguard of their army in a rapid extinguishing of torches and fires.

“You – you _filthy_ little cretins -!” Calpernia turns back to the Herald, to Othain, a violent red overtaking her face as anger builds like fire in her, her aura ingiting in heat and sparks that dance through the air around her in uncontrolled bursts.

“Let’s go,” a gauntleted fist falls on her shoulder, draws her back. “The Elder One won’t be pleased. We’d best get out of here-”

Calpernia _screams_ in anger, releasing a wild pulse of magic that Othain scrambles to dampen before it reaches his companions, grunting with the effort of absorbing and diffusing the other’s raw power.

“ _Let’s go,_ ” Samson all but yanks the woman back towards the mountain path, meeting the Inquisition’s looks with a glare. “Make no mistake Herald, this-”

He is interrupted by a piercing, rumbling, grating cry from high above and then, a moment later, by a _crashing_ of something – Othain barely has time to register what it is, some sort of corrupt magic, like red lyrium and fire – that demolishes the trebuchet and sends Blackwall flying from the platform and falling across the scorched earth. Othain turns back to the pair to find them gone, disappeared in that instant into the darkness of the Frostbacks.

“What in the Maker’s name-!” Maxwell shouts, runs to help Blackwall to his feet. Othain looks up to find something _massive_ , shades of purple and red dark enough to be nearly black, crossing the sky above Haven. Its winged, the span of its wings almost stretching across the village and its horrid shape glisting under the moon’s halo.

“Is that…?” Othain begins before Varric cuts him off.

“Who cares what it is?” The dwarf is already making his way towards the north-bound trail. “We have to get to Haven!”

Varric, accompanied by Blackwall and then The Iron Bull, Solas, hasten to return to the village. Maxwell grabs Othain by the elbow, concern written in his expression.

“Othain, are you okay?” he asks, hesitating a moment instead of following the others.

“I don’t know,” the witch’s voice is quiet. Emotion’s fight in him like warring magic, fear and anger the counter-spell to his curiosity about the other Dreamer, his relief at the avalanche’s success, his shock at the arrival of the dragon that circles the village.

“Let’s get to Haven. We _will_ make it through this,” Maxwell says, and looking into the determination in the warrior’s clear blue eyes, Othain is tempted to believe it.

Dire as the situation is; assaulted on one front by Venatori and Red Templars, caught off-guard by what seems to be two important figures in this Elder One’s army, and – most notably – circled by a dragon as a hare is a by a hawk.

“Alright,” Othain breathes, and just for a moment Maxwell presses his forehead to the his own, closes his eyes and sighs just a little.

They part, Maxwell releasing his arm to draw his blade once again and lead the mage back towards the village.

*

“Herald!” Cullen calls as the two catch up to the others – their Commander is ushering the last of their soldiers into the village, sword at the ready and the other motioning for them to hurry. As they draw closer: “You bought us some time with that maneuver with the trebuchet, but I fear that the bloody – _dragon_ , or whatever it is – has taken it back.”

“It’s an archdemon,” Cole’s voice, next to the Commander. “I was in the Fade, when I saw it, but it looked like that.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Othain sighs. “What do we do?”

“We’re getting everyone into the Chantry. It’s the only structure that stands a chance against… that _thing_.” Cullen’s expression is drawn into a grim line. “You had all better fall back to the Chantry as well. Better to plan there than out here in the open.”

Maxwell nods. “Is everyone in the village?”

Cullen draws them in past the gate after an examination of the field just outside the town. “I believe so,” he says. “I will wait here just a few more minutes for stragglers. You go ahead.”

Maxwell nods, pulls Othain after him towards the Chantry. The village is devastated – fire and blood and ash wrought by the wyrm that rains destruction from overhead. Othain can feel the corruption of red lyrium in the flames it leaves in its wake, leaving him to wonder what exactly the creature is – is it truly and Archdemon, corrupted by the foul lyrium?

“Alright, let’s get into the Chantry,” Maxwell says as the come past the apothecary and towards the stone structure, the only thing as-of-yet unaffected by the flames. Othain hears the bubbling, hissing roar of the creature and looks up, feels on the periphery of his magic as it begins to bundle power –

Just ahead, a woman sits kneeled at a chest before the requisitions’ tent, gathering some things – supplies, presumably – and Othain feels the surge of released power from the Archdemon. He acts on instinct, adrenaline flooding his veins as he realizes that the blast is headed straight for her prone form –

_“Watch Out - !”_

Erupts into black smoke, spilling forward with all the speed he can muster, imbued with the magic of a barrier and raw power

The woman looks up from her kneeling squat just in time to see the coiling black smoke collide with the oncoming blast from the archdemon, the black magic coiling around it and suppressing it just long enough for her to duck out of the way before the blast passes through it and envelops the nearby tent and bench in corrupt flames.

The smoke collapses to the ground, condenses and solidifies into the prone form of the witch, curled in on himself and _screaming_ in pain, arms tucked against his abdomen and corrupt red magic alight and sparking on his skin.

Maxwell’s veins run ice-cold – it all happened so quickly, _too_ quickly – Othain was off with an alarmed shout, struck by the creature’s magic and then reappeared on the ground some yards past the tent – the warrior doesn’t know if he’s every run so quickly in his life as he does to cross the distance to the mage.

“Othain!” he cries, comes to a skidding stop next to the man, drops to his knees; his heart lurches at the pain written in red magic across his skin, at his expression drawn against the excruciating sensation, at the sound of his cries in the air of the burning village.

“I – _agh – it hurts –”_ Othain seethes, eyes opening wide and his breathes coming shallow and rapid.

The woman who he just saved appears, too, at his side. Threnn, the Quartermaster, Maxwell recognizes dimly. “You – you’re Lord Mac Tir,” she says, quiet, almost reverent. “You saved me – we’ve got to get you inside.”

“Can we move him?” Maxwell asks, looking to the woman as she moves to hook one arm under the man – he winces at the hiss that this elicits from Othain.

“We don’t have a choice, Herald,” she says. “Come on – help me get him up.”

“Don’t bother. I’ve got him,” he says; in a deft motion, from Othain’s side, he maneuvers one hand under the man’s shoulders and the other hooked under his knees and lifts. He stands, takes a moment to find his balance before turning to Threnn. “Come on – help me with the door…”

He bites back the nausea that rises in his throat as he can _feel_ the red magic, almost electric and tinted with the scent of ozone, that courses over the mage’s skin.

“You’ve got to fight it, Othain, be strong for me,” he urges quietly as they approach the Chantry. The door is flung open – Roderick is there, supported against Cole’s narrow figure – he’s wounded, too.

“I’m - trying,” Othain’s voice is so quiet that Max might not have heard it if the man’s face weren’t positioned against his shoulder. “M-Max… Solas…”

_Solas. He can help – right?_ Maxwell looks around the crowded Chantry as he carries Othain inside, finding the bulk of his companions just inside. “Solas – come, quickly. Othain needs help.”

“What happened?” Solas paces over to them with haste, alarm written instantly across his expression. Varric follows him, concerned as well for Othain’s well being.

“I – I’m sorry, he was protectin’ me,” Threnn says from behind him. “He took a blast from that Maker-damned creature.”

“I’m not sure what he did, Solas,” Maxwell lays Othain down, leaning against one of the stone pillars that flank the chamber. “It was like he – suppressed the blast, or held it back, somehow. It all happened too fast. Can you help him?”

“Hm,” the elf hums, positions a hand over his friend’s chest – a blue-white light fills the space between them, and the red sparks on his skin pop and crack agitatedly as the foreign magic fills it. “I believe I can purge it, and heal Othain. Leave him to me,” he says.

Maxwell hesitates, grows quiet for a tense moment as the elf begins his treatment of Othain. He reaches, hesitant, for the wounded mage’s hand, wraps it in his and lifts it gently.

“You’re so reckless,” his voice is almost a whisper, edged and rough from the emotion that threatens to spill. “What am I to do with you…”

Othain – still conscious, if barely – lifts his head with effort to look at Maxwell, and the Herald sees the way he draws his lips into a grin with incredible effort. “I am – fine,” he says, even as his chest heaves with the difficulty of speech. Solas gives him a reprimanding look, but doesn’t otherwise stop him.

Cullen’s voice interrupts from behind Maxwell.

“Herald – I’m sorry, but you have to let Solas tend to Othain. We need you.”

“You go on, Ser,” Threnn says. She’s arrived with lyrium flasks for Othain and for Solas. “The elf and I will tend to Lord Mac Tir. He will be alright.”

Maxwell’s chest sinks – _the archdemon._ The Venatori, and the Red Templars. Perhaps he had lied, when he told Othain they would make it through this. He brings Othain’s hand up to brush a kiss against his knuckles before setting it down gently. Meets the man’s eyes, the surprising strength he finds there, obscured as it is by the pain.

“Alright,” he is resolute once again. He stands, turning with difficulty away from Othain and towards the others. “What is the Elder One after? What are they here for?”

“The Elder One is here for you,” Cole says from where he supports Roderick against another of the Chantry’s columns. “He wants to punish, to hurt you for sealing the Breach. He’ll kill everyone else, too, because he can. I don’t like him.”

“ _You don’t li-”_ Cullen starts, exasperated, before letting out a heavy sigh and rubs his temples. “Herald. Haven is lost, but we can decide how this ends. If we turn the final trebuchet, we can hit them-”

“To hit them, we would bury Haven,” Maxwell interrupts, dread growing in a knot in his stomach.

“Many don’t have the chance to determine how their fate ends,” Cullen says. “I do not believe we can survive this, but we can take the bastards with us.”

“There is a way,” Cole again. He helps Roderick to push off from the column, to make his way with difficulty towards the two men. Maxwell sees, now, the red bloodstain that makes its way down the side of the cleric’s robes, mingling with the crimson at the front of the robe and along the hem. “Roderick knows. He wants to tell you before he dies.”

“There is a path,” Roderick begins with difficulty; Maxwell can hear the strain of his injury in his voice. “You wouldn’t know of it unless you had made the Summer Pilgrimage, as I have – it was so long ago…” Another strained, hurting gasp. Nearby, Othain cries out under the healing ministrations of Solas, and Maxwell bites back his alarm and tries to focus on the Chanter before him. “ – Andraste must have shown me, so that I could show you,” he sighs.

“A path – out of the valley?” Cullen asks, and Roderick nods with difficulty. “Alright. Cole – take Roderick, and the others, and start getting people on the path out.”

Maxwell frowns at the realization – even with a route out, they still won’t make it past the dragon.

No, they need something to draw its attention for long enough to get everyone away from the valley.

Dread sinks into the pit of his stomach.

“Cullen,” his voice is grim. “You go with the others. I will distract the archdemon. Bring the mountain down on Haven.”

“Herald – you-”

“That’s the only way, Commander,” he interrupts – needs Cullen to agree before his resolution gives out. “We need to stop them from following. The Elder One is here for me - I’ll hold his attention long enough for you all to make it out. Signal me, and I’ll fire the trebuchet.”

There’s a long silence.

“Perhaps you will find a way… Find a way to surprise it,” Cullen nods, steps back hesitantly. Behind him, Maxwell sees Othain sitting up with difficulty.

“I-I am going with you,” he says, winces. Solas tries to push him to sitting, but he resists, braces himself against the floor with one arm.

“No. You aren’t,” Maxwell’s tone is flat, uncompromising. “You’re going with Solas, and he’s going to heal you.”

Othain pushes up to standing – bites back the pain, the whimper that threatens to break past his teeth. His cloak is discarded, and he leans against the column in his torn tunic and bloodied trousers. “You are not going alone. I care not what you say.”

Maxwell crosses the distance between them, stepping directly into Othain’s space. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” his tone is hard, angry, but his eyes tell a different story. Othain sees _pain_ there, reluctance.

“I said I am coming with you.”

“No, you aren’t,” Maxwell sighs. “I - ” then, without warning, hooks an arm about Othain’s shoulders and kisses him once, urgent, _hard_. He pulls back – “Goodbye, Othain,” he says, quietly, and then makes for the door.

A barrier slides over the door with a hiss of magic – he turns to find the witch red-faced with exertion, but his expression set in determination.

_Othain. “_ Don’t make me do something I’ll regret,” he challenges the witch, and he feels the air charging with power.

“I am _not_ letting you face an _archdemon_ alone!” Othain all but shouts, his rising emotion charging the air of the Chantry. Maxwell takes another step forward, his own anger rising as well.

“Release the barrier. _Now._ ”

Othain doesn’t respond, instead stares the Herald down.

It isn’t either of them that breaks their stalemate, but Solas. The elf puts a hand, gentle, on Othain’s shoulder, snapping his gaze from Maxwell to his friend. “Let him go, _mir falon._ This is _his_ task. _Ma na tel’dareth. Ir abelas._ ”

Maxwell doesn’t know what he said, but Othain’s gaze lowers and a shadow overcomes his expression. The barrier over the door releases in the barest of sighs – Maxwell almost doesn’t notice.

“Go, then,” Othain says – turns, and follows Threnn and Solas deeper into the Chantry.

Maxwell flinches forward, but the raven-haired man is already leaving. He thinks he sees Othain look back, briefly. He backs up against the door, looks to the rest of his companions.

“Well,” he says, swallows thickly. If he weren’t facing near-certain death, perhaps he would be embarrassed by that entire display. He can think of worse things, however, than to die with the sensation of Othain’s lips still lingering on his. “Farewell,” he says – doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t _want_ this to be goodbye.

He pushes the door open, his free hand finding the charm at his neck of its own will, and passes out of the Chantry and back into the frozen, burning air of Haven.

***

Maxwell encounters little resistance as he makes his way through the desiccated shell of Haven – he can imagine that the Red Templars and the Venatori are as frightened of the creature as they are. Not to mention the avalanche – he thinks, with no small bitterness, that they might have come victorious out of this conflict if the Elder One didn’t have a _bloody dragon._

It’s like walking through a nightmare, one that Envy could never have conjured. The smell of smoke burns the air with its acidity and its acrid taste sits on the back of his throat. Everywhere he sees flames whose tongues lap hungrily at the snowflakes falling ever heavier from the night sky. The scattered corpses of Venatori or Templars litter the village – few villagers, which eases his despair only partially.

He focuses on Othain as he descends the steps down into the lower tier of the village, moving with intent towards the remaining southern trebuchet.

His lips, surprisingly smooth. The way that they become fuller, pinker, after he kisses them. The man’s long black hair that he refuses to tame, and the way it frames his face. It sits against his pale skin like ink on cotton. Even his height comes to mind, the way that he has to lift himself onto his toes to meet Maxwell halfway into a kiss – he knows it’s because the shorter man refuses to feel passive. He’s the perfect height, really, tall enough so that the top of his head comes to Maxwell’s nose. He feels as if, when he embraces Othain, the man slots perfectly against him.

The herbal smells of elfroot and embrium, a subtle spice and earthiness. The scents that Othain always carries on him – an effect of the time he spends on his own in the woods, or working in the apothecary.

_I’m sorry that you couldn’t come with me,_ Maxwell thinks as he approaches the trebuchet, gnawing anxieties mounting in his gut. _I’m sorry that I left. I’m sorry that I won’t get to keep you safe._

_I –_

***

Othain paces ahead of the group but lingers just behind Roderick, who leans on Mother Giselle for support. Solas walks with him, and they walk in silence. Gone is the camaraderie of the early evening, gone is the mirth of their triumph.

The Archdemon’s magic lingers in a growing soreness that pervades every fibre of his being, in sparks of magic that have yet to fade from his system, but his strength is largely returned.

Maxwell truly hadn’t wanted him to go. He understands – or, rather, he _tries_ to understand. If their roles had been reversed, Othain would not bring the other into near-certain death. Still – it irked him that Maxwell seemed to think that if he kissed him and whispered into his ear, that he would be too dazed to argue with him. His concerns for Maxwell’s safety wouldn’t dissipate with a kiss – and even if he had to make a scene, he would make sure that the man knew it.

He can’t help the bitterness that gnaws at him, even if it is dwarfed by the dread, the very real knot in his throat that grows denser, heavier, with each passing moment.

Roderick leads them through the Chantry basements and into one of the many secret passages of the village that lead into the cave system beneath the town. He’s almost impressed that the old man can navigate the complex system of caves after so many years.

The dragon cult that once inhabited Haven must have truly been expansive. _Powerful._ The interiors of the caves are carved into impressive structures: bastions, dungeons, antechambers and living quarters. It would be impossible to call the caves, if it weren’t for the rock formations that lie still exposed, stalactites that hang ominous from the ceiling, strange bulges and bubbles in the rock from centuries of water flowing through the stone.

The caves open, eventually, into a path on the far end of the Valley of Sacred Ashes. Othain stops, turns back to look at Haven, below them. It is an amorphous light, bleeding fires and smoke into the crisp mountain air. His heart lurches – he can spot the trebuchet, he thinks.

“Don’t do it, Feathers,” Varric says, braces an hand gently against the witch’s upper arm.

“I’m not,” Othain sighs. The villagers, templars and mages stream past him, many of them requiring the assistance of their fellows or of the Chanters to help them walk. The Inquisition had been remarkably efficient in withdrawing from the village with a maximum of resources. It helps that they had stockpiled such things in the caves, even if it had originally been meant to offset the arrival of their allies.

Varric stops, too, turns to the village. “He wouldn’t want you to be so upset,” he tries, nudges the mage. “He would probably say some dumb shit right now to try and cheer you up.”

Othain kneels in the snow, buries one hand in the frozen powder at his feet. “Please don’t,” he whispers. “I appreciate what you are trying to do, but please stop.”

Varric would never share this with anyone – even in the books that he might come to write – but for the first time he saw tears fall from the Dreamers eyes and darken the snow.

The Inquisition’s people continue to make their way past the mage. Refugees now, unprepared for whatever must come next.

_Selfish. Selfish of you, to leave me like this._

A breath of magic next to Othain – he sees the wide brim of Cole’s hat in the edge of his vision.

“I’m sorry that you couldn’t come with me,” Cole’s voice, kneeling next to Othain, eyes on that same point on the edge of the burning village. “I’m sorry that I left. I’m sorry that I won’t get to keep you safe.”

“Is that what he is thinking?” Othain lifts his head, wipes his face on the rough linen of his sleeve. “It’s a little late-”

“Yes,” Cole nods. “He loves you. He wanted you to know.”

A beat of silence – the knot in his throat is too big, too heavy, too painful, suddenly, for Othain to speak. Tears, again. He scoffs in derision at his own self and buries his face in the crook of his sleeve.

“Dammit,” he whispers, his voice growing hoarse already. “Dammit, _Dammit!”_

Varric moves next to Cole, places a hand on the spirit’s shoulder. “I don’t think that was helpful, kid.”

“He needed to know.”

Othain stands abruptly, turns away from the village. “He had better make it back alive,” he says to Cole, “so that I can _wring his neck._ ”

The last of the Inquisition soldiers brings up the rear as they make their exit, alongside Cullen. A single flare – Maxwell’s signal.

***

Maxwell sits up among the new heat of the Archdemon’s flames – scrambles to his feet – searches for his blade, but it is nowhere nearby. _At least the trebuchet is intact._ Shrubs and grass, trees that line the clearing burn.

The wind of its passing alerts him to the Archdemon’s presence before the creature itself lands, heavy, on its four enormous legs that each dwarf the burning spruce logs of the palisade. It _enormous_ , truly, standing as tall as the Chantry with wings that could span the clearing at their full breadth. It hisses at him, a deep and rushing sound from the depths of its long, scaled neck, and it moves to block his escape along the northern trail.

He circles away from it, towards the trebuchet. _Just a little more time_ –

Magic, on his flank, a breath of force magic that extinguishes the ring of flames to his right. He turns, adrenaline fueling his every maneuver, to the source of the spell.

The Elder One is not what he expected. This… _thing_ … is not human.

It is tall, impossibly so, drawing a head taller even than the tallest of Qunari, and it is impossibly gaunt. Its form is almost skeletal, and its grey skin is drawn over its disgusting frame like taut leather. Its anatomy is a mistake of grey steel and red lyrium fused to its flesh and its features are sunk into its hideous skull, half of which is overcome by clinging red lyrium. It wears robes – what once were robes, now fused into its horrible form. Tatters of grey and black fabric that are sunk into the red lyrium sores that dot its skin, and iron spikes extend prominently from its bony grey chest.

The worst thing, perhaps, is its eyes. Lidless, unblinking as it approaches, darting between the man before it and the archdemon behind him. They are _enraged_ , and bloodshot, crimson in their center and what was once the whites of its eyes are yellowed by age and rot.

With every step that brings it closer to Maxwell, every _fibre_ of his being _screams_ at him to run. He doesn’t need magic, or anything, to know that this creature, whatever it is, is not just _wrong._

_It’s evil._

“Pretender,” the creature speaks, the tightly-drawn grey hide of its face wrinkling with every movement of its mouth. Its voice is deep, raspy with the rough air that moves through its horrid lungs and its ruined throat. “You toy with forces beyond your ken – _no more._ ”

Maxwell swallows against the dry heat of the flames that surround them, and against his own fear. _Time. Just stall for time._

“What – who are you?” he calls to the creature, circling slowly as it continues to draw nearer. “What do you _want_?”

“Mortals _beg_ for truth that they cannot reach. It is beyond what you are. What I _was_ ,” the creature sneers. It is drawn close enough, now, and it stops. “Know me, mortal, and know what _you_ have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One, the **_will_** that is Corypheus.”

It extends its impossibly long, thin arm towards him, and points at him with its skeletal hand, and it sneers. “You _will_ kneel,” it practically growls.

Maxwell takes a step back, freezes when he hears the gurgling hiss of the archdemon at its back. “I will never yield, Creature,” he says. His voice falls flat on the clearing – even he can recognize the futility in his tone.

He hadn’t realized, before, the reality of his impending death. The knowledge is so much heavier now, like dirt stuffed down his throat, filling his lungs, his guts, pressing the breath from his chest –

He feels already buried.

The Elder One – _Corypheus_ , if that is its name – vents its displeasure in a raspy growl. Leans back, drops its pointing arm. “You will resist,” he begins, matter-of-fact. “You will always resist – it matters not. I am _here_ for the Anchor; the process of removing it begins now.”

It lifts its other hand, and in it – a sphere? Yes – a metal sphere, ridged in convalescing swirls that cover its entire surface. It crackles and radiates with red energy; he’s no expert, but it looks like the same corrupt aura of red lyrium that he saw in Redcliffe.

_The Anchor – could that be my mark?_

His silent question is answered in the next moment as the Mark – the Anchor – flares to life, more painfully than it has since he first awoke in the dungeon of Haven’s Chantry. It knocks the breath from his lungs, and his hand raises unconsciously from his side and extends towards the creature. He braces his wrist with his other hand, gritting his teeth against the pain, trying to pull his hand away from the creature – to do _something, anything_ – _I can’t just sit here while this asshole gets what he wants –_

“This is your fault, _Herald,_ ” the creature sneers as it maintains whatever fel spell it casts, eyes staring him down with grim intent. “You interrupted a ritual years in the making, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose.”

_What – what ritual? Does he mean –_

“I do not know how you survived,” the beast continues. “But what marks you as ‘touched’, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very _heavens_.”

Something – the spell – intensifies, suddenly, a jarring burst of magic that travels along the tether connecting Maxwell to Corypheus, and he drops to his knees with a stunted cry.

“And you used the Anchor to undue my work. The _gall_.”

Gritting his teeth as he attempts to stand – he manages to get one foot under him, then another, biting back the pain – he looks back to the creature. “What is the Anchor meant to _do_ , then?!”

“It is meant to give certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.”

Corypheus’ hand drops back to his side, the red aura of the sphere subsiding. The pain ceases, though it leaves the Anchor on _fire_ , an eruption of pins and needles that extends all the way up to his shoulder and aching as if he was bleeding out without a wound.

In another step, the creature looms over the Herald and wraps one of its gaunt, grey hands around his wrist, hoisting the warrior into the air as easily as if he were a dog. Adrenaline spikes in Maxwell’s veins, and he struggles against the grip of the creature to no avail. Its _strength_ is nothing like what he expected from this gaunt creature.

“I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire _in person_ ,” Corypheus all but snarls. I found only chaos and corruption – for a _thousand years_ I was confused. _No more._

I have gathered the _will_ to return under no name other than my own, to champion withered Tevinter and to give this world the nation – and God – it requires,” it seethes, bringing Maxwell close enough so that he can feel the hot, rotted breath of the creature on his face. “ _Beg_ that I succeed, for I have seen the Throne of the Gods, and it was **_empty._** ”

He lands with a pained groan against the wooden base of the trebuchet as the creature tosses him like a rag doll.

“The Anchor is permanent. You have spoilt it with your stumbling,” the creature says, aggravated, turns to face him.

_There_ – his blade, sitting just a pace away from him on the platform of the war machine. He scrambles to his feet, gripping the greatsword by the hilt and backing away towards the firing mechanism. _I just need one opening._

“I will not suffer even an unknowing rival,” Corypheus says, and the dragon takes a step closer to the platform drawing level with the monster in one stride.

In the distance, a single flare pierces the inky veil of the night sky over Haven. Something bittersweet – relief, understanding, resignation – overcomes Maxwell suddenly, displacing the fear and the horror that roil in the pit of his stomach.

He looks to the creature again, a sad smile turning the corner of his lips. “Your arrogance blinds you,” he says, “And it will be your undoing.”

_Goodbye, Othain._

All at once he turns, quick, letting the blade fall heavily into the rope that secures the firing mechanism – in a shuddering release of force the trebuchet fires towards the mountain that directly overlooks the village.

He doesn’t bother to watch for the creature’s reaction. He turns, spots a gap in the palisade that flanks the platform, and _runs_. If it attempts to stop him, he doesn’t know. He _does_ feel the wind of the dragon’s wings, the strength of its angered cries as it lifts off from the ground of the clearing. He approaches the gap as the deep, almost imperceptible rumbling of the mountains grows, and he knows that he has almost no time before the avalanche takes over the village –

_There_ – he doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t need to know. A gap in the rocks at his feet, what was once boarded up but has several of its planks torn loose. He dives for it, snapping through the old wood with the weight of his armor and his own momentum.

***

Othain watches from atop the mountain as snow descends upon the village – it’s devastating in more ways than one as its many flames are extinguished in the span of a moment, the town buried faster than he could ever have expected.

He doesn’t _want_ to watch, but he does. He feels that he must, as if it is only fair to Maxwell. To witness his sacrifice.

It’s almost ironic how the Mark still burns in his mind’s eye, as if whatever sadistic God presides over this realm saw fit to indicate to him where precisely the man was buried. It will fade soon, he is certain. He almost cherishes the familiar magic on the periphery of his awareness while he still can.

Eventually, though, he must leave. The Inquisition is making its camp just beyond the mountain’s peak, in the shadow of two narrow cliffsides where they can be reasonably safe from the eye of the dragon, and from the encroaching blizzard. They will take stock of their resources, their people, attempt to formulate a plan. Othain doesn’t know if he has it in him to join them, yet. He moves to a cleft in the rock face that overlooks the entirety of the valley, a mere hundred yards or so from the edge of the camp, and takes a seat. Solas left him to join the others, at his own bidding. He does not want to feel fragile, to break under the watchful eyes of his friends.

No, he would rather suffer alone, nurse his wounds while he wanes over the corpse of Haven.

The blizzard comes – he wishes he had his cloak, still. At some point, Leliana brings him one without a word. He draws it tight about himself and continues his frozen vigil.

He isn’t certain why he maintains his watch over the valley. The mark burns, still and – it draws his eye. Without his comprehension or even his awareness, that bright green spark ignites in him the faintest of hopes, a flickering candle in the roaring winds of a blizzard.

Eventually, he is forced to conjure a fire, to use some small part of his magic to buffer himself from the snow. Varric tries to bring him food, but he refuses it. The dwarf sits alongside him for a time, eats his own meal while looking over the valley, and then leaves.

He doesn’t break his silence until Cassandra arrives, stirs him in surprise from his statuary stoicism. “Maxwell was a good man,” she says, and her voice is thick with emotion. “And he cared for you a great deal. I… am sorry, Othain.”

“It is… I do not understand,” he responds at length. “The Mark still burns. I can _feel_ it, but… why? Wishful thinking, perhaps –”

“Do not torture yourself,” her voice is gentler than he could have expected. “No one wants to face it… but he could not have survived that avalanche. The entire valley is buried. Even the dragon fled.”

Othain nods, dips his head below his shoulders, retreating into his huddled figure. “I promised to protect him,” its more of a breath than it is spoken word, shaky and weak. He doesn’t understand his sudden vulnerability, in front of the Seeker, of all people. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

“Life is not only about strength,” the Seeker responds at length. “And you are strong. You will survive this.”

Othain doesn’t respond to that – doesn’t know how.

The Mark sparks to life, and he flinches out of his huddled posture, gaze moving instantly back to the valley. “What was that?” he says, looks to find Cassandra looking at him, confusion and concern in her normally severe expression.

“Othain,” she begins.

“No – the Mark,” he says, standing with sudden vigor. “It’s _moving._ I can feel it. That can only mean one thing, Se- Cassandra.” He turns to her, his entire being energized suddenly, adrenaline bringing his frozen limbs to life. “Maxwell is _alive._ He has to be. I’m going to find him-”

“Othain -!” Cassandra starts again, jumps to her feet, but the witch is already gone – disappeared into the dark and the snow in a column of black smoke.

***

_Of course there’s a fucking blizzard all of a sudden._

His hand aches – he doesn’t even begin to understand what just happened, in the cave with those despair demons – it almost felt as if he had torn a Rift into the veil between them, and it had swallowed the creatures whole – but that _couldn’t be_.

Ever since that Maker-damned creature, Corypheus, he supposes it calls itself, attempted to remove the Anchor, it’s been lit on fire. It doesn’t possess the warmth of a flame, unfortunately, but it consumes his arm just as hungrily.

He clears the lip of the cave and lands in the snow in a controlled fall. He knows vaguely the direction in which the Inquisition was headed, and he intends to get there if he can.

_I won’t have survived a dragon, some ancient arsehole monster, and an avalanche just to die in this damned ice-field._ Maxwell grits his teeth and trudges through the snow. He can hardly see anything other than snow, flurries of the stuff in the pitch-black night, and the silhouette of the mountains ahead of him. There’s a fork, a cleft spot where the mountaintop is split. He heads for that.

But _maker_ if he isn’t cold. He doesn’t have his sword anymore – couldn’t carry it if he did. His hands are rapidly growing numb, and he’s insulated only marginally by the armor he’s _still_ wearing, and the padding beneath it.

It’s a miracle that he hasn’t broken anything, but he attributes that to Othain’s amulet. Again, he feels the barrier over his form, sustained by the mage’s enchantment. It, too, dampens the cold just enough for him to bear it. He pushes his foot through another deep bank of snow, one after the other. Grunts with the effort of each and every step.

He smells – _smoke?_ _There – just ahead._ A campfire. He must be on the right track. He stops to shove his armored gauntlets into the cinders just long enough to fend off the cold, just a little.

It does next to nothing. He continues in heavy footfalls, in shallow breaths.

He’s coming up on a stand of pines – he can hear wolves nearby, too. He hunches in closer on himself; with each step he is practically lunging through the snow. He loses his balance, falls into the snow-banks –

He isn’t sure he has the strength to get up.

_What if I just stop? Just… lay here._ He can barely feel anything. Even the pain in his hands and feet is distant, now.

_No. Get up – you’re not dead yet._

He rolls onto his stomach in the snow, plants his hands underneath him and pushes – groans with the effort of lifting his aching, frozen body off the ground.

Wolves howling again. Nearer this time.

Now, he sees them. They’re circling him; he can only barely identify their dark forms against the long shadows of the pine stands. Several of them, he has no idea how many. At least four.

From his flank he hears something shift in the snow – something snarling – he turns just in time to see the wolf try to tackle him, to nip at his leg only to encounter the steel there. It snarls in frustration and backs off, circling him again.

If only he had a sword.

The wolves are drawing nearer, more of them, and the howling is all around him.

_I just can’t catch a break –_

Another lunges at him; this one catches him in the chest, hits him with enough force to knock him off balance and onto his back. _This is it – I –_

Something _massive_ barrels through the snow, directly over him, catches one of the wolves and sends it flying. It’s black, and its silhouette is indistinct against the night sky, but Maxwell hears the ragged, hoarse breaths of a beast. He rolls out from underneath it, stands clumsily in spite of his frozen limbs.

It’s another wolf – or something like one. It’s larger than any beast Maxwell has seen, standing taller than him and covered from head to tail in shaggy black fur. Its eyes are a brilliant red. Two wolves flank it, try to make for its haunches, but it whirls with surprising agility. One of the wolves catches in its enormous jaws, and Maxwell sees fangs the length of a dagger – it shakes the smaller beast like a rag doll and tosses the bloody mess into the snow.

Then he realizes – _Othain._

“Othain-” he tries to speak, but his voice is practically inaudible; still, the creature whirls on him and, if he could attribute a human expression to the great wolf, he would say it was _glaring at him._

The rest of the lesser beasts flee; they are pack things, and rarely challenge greater predators such as this monstrous wolf.

He watches, dumbfounded, as the wolf dissipates in a plume of smoke to reveal the witch – his heart could explode in his chest when he sees those fair features, the black of his hair. Perhaps it’s the fatigue – he’s speechless.

“Maxwell,” the witch says, approaches swiftly. He conjures a flame in one hand, brings it close to the man.

“Othain, I – I’m-”

“Not now,” the man shushes him. “For now, we must get you to the others. You need tending.”

“Right,” he says shakily. He’s suddenly aware, again, of the heavy cold in his limbs. The heat of the witch’s magic is spreading quickly, and he notices dimly that Othain has cleared the area ahead of them of snow.

“I have you. Lean on me,” the witch says, ducking under Max’s arm and wrapping one of his own about the man’s waist. The warrior could swear he feels the barest hint of force magic under him, shifting his weight up and forward and helping him to walk.

They walk in silence for some time. The mountain pass draws gradually nearer, and Maxwell thinks he can see the glow of firelights beyond the cloven rocks.

“Oth-”

“Not now,” the man repeats, impatient. Maxwell doesn’t understand why Othain seems angry with him. A heavy silence falls between them.

Then, contradicting his own orders: “You do _not_ get to run off to your death, bury yourself under an _avalanche_ and then come back to life just to _Othain_ me.”

A sudden laugh racks Maxwell’s figure, tearing through his chest with its abruptness. Certainly neither of them expected him to be laughing, and Maxwell swears he can hear the man fuming at his reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finding his voice gradually as the witch’s mage-flame warms him.

“I know,” Othain seethes between gritted teeth. “ _Cole_ told me. Now _quiet._ ”

Soldiers meet them soon after, a stretcher born between them. Othain helps Max onto it and travels with the soldiers, clearing the snow before them to make their journey up the steep slope easier. The witch maintains the flame, too; it hovers over the Herald and continues to warm him gently. His limbs ache, his entire person aches, and he fights the weariness that overtakes him in a futile struggle. The last thing Maxwell sees before he drifts to sleep is the mage pacing ahead of them, clearing the snow and looking back occasionally on Maxwell. He slides into the welcome blackness of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this, I hope you enjoyed it! None of these chapters are edited before being published, but I'm proud of this one nonetheless. 
> 
> I kind of didn't expect this part of the story to stretch into more than one chapter, but here we are. Oh Well!
> 
> Please feel free to comment! Getting feedback helps me to feel motivated to work on each new chapter, and I really look forward to hearing from y'all! I appreciate those who do comment - enormously. Regardless of if you comment or not, thank you for reading!
> 
> EDIT: It's been indicated to me that Calpernia is a human. I don't know how I arrived at thinking she was an elf, but I changed the chapter accordingly because changing her race wasn't intentional. Thanks again!

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are always very appreciated. I'm going to try my very best to update regularly, at least once or twice a month.
> 
> Also, let me know if there are tags you think I should add. I'm not the greatest at it.


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